


red & white

by samarskite



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Bones References, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Investigations, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentalist Grantaire, Slow Burn, Special Agent Enjolras, The Mentalist AU, The X Files references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarskite/pseuds/samarskite
Summary: In which Grantaire is the mean psychic and Enjolras is the good cop; a child is kidnapped, a wife and a daughter were killed six years ago and feelings are complicated.





	red & white

_"Because happiness is so hard to find. Once you find it, you better hang on tight. Or you lose it."_

_"That's true... That's true."_

 

 

 

This story starts with them making out in a club booth. 

The chain of events that brought Enjolras in a club in the first place is a different story; for now, the thing that really matters is that Enjolras is trapped between the leathery back of the booth, the wall, and the weight of Grantaire's body and he's totally fine with that. Also, he's pretty drunk. No point in denying that. But so is everyone else there, so the fact doesn't bother him as much as it should. 

Grantaire has a hand on his hip and a hand in his hair and he's kissing him senseless; Enjolras is kissing him back.

The true achievement of the whole situation is that, normally, Enjolras would worry about a lot of things, since he hasn't much experience in this field; instead, he currently doesn't really give a shit. He doesn't wonder what he is supposed to do with his hands, or with his tongue; he doesn't worry about the kiss being too sloppy, or his actions being too needy; he doesn't ask himself if Grantaire is silently mocking him for his lack of experience.

Enjolras is simply caught up in the moment, kissing and kissing and kissing Grantaire, making wet sounds and satisfied noises. 

“Grantaire”, he says, when they both gasp for air. He is vaguely aware it comes off whiny, but he keeps talking anyway. “We're drunk”, he realises. 

Grantaire stares at him with an unreadable look. “We are”, he eventually says, slurring a little — much less than Enjolras anyway.

“People in movies do make out while drunk every time, but I feel like – I feel like we shouldn't be doing this? I mean, I want to do this, but consent – we should do this when consent is clear. And we're colleagues. We work together. We shouldn't be doing this now”.

“We shouldn't”, agrees Grantaire, his black curls bouncing up and down as he nods. “Ethics”.

“We should stop”, adds Enjolras, tone progressively lacking conviction. 

“We should“, repeats Grantaire once again, but he's getting closer and closer. 

“We — we _should_ —”; Enjolras never finishes the sentence, as they're kissing again.

Somehow, Enjolras' hands end up under Grantaire's white t-shirt (and, wow, how _much_ time does he spend in the gym? _Jesus Christ_ ) and Grantaire's hands end up on Enjolras' hips, pinning him down while he's kissing his jaw. 

“We're in a public place“, Enjolras tries to reason, short of breath and incredibly aroused. “This is borderline indecent exposure, for sure —”.

Grantaire stops kissing him; the primordial part of Enjolras' brain is complaining, the Special Agent part rejoices the fact. “Let’s get out of here, then”, Grantaire says.

Enjolras looks at him. Grantaire has never, ever invited anyone at his place. He remembers interrogating one of his very few ex-lovers for the Backstreet case, and the girl told him that never once she saw Grantaire's house. Not even from afar. 

Enjolras' right hand goes to Grantaire's chest, to feel his heartbeat; his heart is beating like crazy. 

“We could go to mine”, Enjolras says, struggling with words, and Grantaire's pulse speeds up further. He's going to explode, if he keeps up this pace.

“Yeah”, Grantaire says, and even through several layers of alcohol Enjolras can tell that he's relieved. “Sounds good to me”.

They kiss again, and it's slower, this time. It is almost too intimate for the situation, but Enjolras knows that Grantaire is literally speaking in tongues to say “Thank you”, so he can't help feeling a sense of warmth in his chest. 

In the end, they take a cab to Enjolras' place, but they are both too drunk and too tired to properly do something; they fall on Enjolras' bed giggling, and kissing slowly until Enjolras almost falls asleep on top of Grantaire. 

 

The morning after, Grantaire's still there; they have breakfast, he dresses up in silence and says they're going to see each other on Monday.

They both know this is something they are never, ever going to talk about. 

 

***

“What do we have here?”, Enjolras says, resolutely staring at the road and at the car's wheel, ignoring both Grantaire, sat next to him wearing huge Ray-Ban sunglasses, and the huge manor they are approaching. The manor is right on the edge of a forest, and must have been built a long time ago. Its state is surprisingly good.

It's a sunny Monday afternoon; the weather has been steadily getting hotter since nine AM, and Enjolras can already feel a thin veil of sweat on the back of his neck. 

“A child was kidnapped”, Combeferre reads from his iPad. “Nine years old, Gavroche Thénardier. He was going to take the school bus, but he never got to school”.

“Thénardier?”, pops up Grantaire, emerging from his semi-sleeping position against the car window. “Fucking _fuck_ ”. 

“Do you know them?”, asks Courfeyrac, trying to hide the shade of curiosity in his voice but failing completely. 

“I tricked Mrs. and Mr. Thénardier into believing I could communicate with her dead grandfather, years ago. Told them they were going to be rich”. 

“How did you guess right?”, asks Enjolras, despite his resolution to ignore as much as possible Grantaire and _The Thing_ they are not talking about. 

Grantaire shrugs. “Their daughter, Éponine, told me the kind of investments they were doing at the time. A friend of a friend told me the investments were good. I thought they were ‘holiday-in-Madagascar’ good, though, not ‘huge-ass-manor-with-huge-ass-garden’ good”. After a beat, he adds: “I also told Mrs. Thénardier she was going to have a second child. I hope she doesn't still believe in that psychic thing”. 

“How on Earth did you —”, starts asking Combeferre, but Grantaire shrugs again and turns to grin at him. “Éponine told me her father hated condoms. Condoms dim the feeling, he said. Lucky guess”.

“That's true, but disgusting”, says Courfeyrac, the tone of distaste clear in his voice, resting on the back of his seat. “Why did their daughter help you, though?”

Grantaire tips his sunglasses. “We shared the money. The offer was so high for such little effort that I figured, why not? It was one of my first frauds, seemed heaven to me compared to the tips I had when I performed to my dad's Circus”. 

Enjolras takes the last turn and stops the car. 

Grantaire's past has never been discussed in detail, but Enjolras suspects he knows more than anyone else anyway. 

For years, Grantaire sold himself as a psychic, taking advantage of his abilities as a mentalist. He claimed to be in direct contact with the afterlife, gathering a considerable amount of clients and getting more and more famous. He was wealthy and well known, he even married and had a daughter, Charlotte. 

Troubles came when he made fun of a famous serial killer, Red John, on public television; Red John killed Grantaire's wife and daughter, in revenge.

Grantaire's life between his family's death and the beginning of his collaboration with CBI isn't known, since he has never talked about it and isn't written on his files; Enjolras knows that the time window should be of eight or nine months, though, as Grantaire once mentioned the anniversary of the murder.

They've been working together for six years now. Red John has been dead for a year and a half. Grantaire shot him straight between the eyes.

“Maybe”, Enjolras says, before Grantaire has the time to get off the car, “You shouldn't come in”.

Grantaire looks at him through the dark lenses of his sunglasses: “And what the fuck am I being payed for, then?“, he asks. “I am a counsellor, am I not? Let me counsel”.

“If the Thénardiers know you and still believe in what you did, we might waste our time, and a kid was kidnapped. We _don't_ have time to waste”, Enjolras says, trying to sound reasonable and calm. 

Grantaire stays quiet for a whole minute; Combeferre and Courfeyrac say nothing. Then, Grantaire runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head: “Bullshit. Why should this be a waste of time? They already know me. If anything, they're going to collaborate more easily”. 

“Their child was kidnapped. They are going to collaborate easily with or without you, Grantaire”, replies Enjolras, who is starting to lose his patience. 

Grantaire scratches his chin; he hasn't shaved off, so his beard is still growing — the same beard that reddened Enjolras' skin, Saturday night — he doesn't want to think about it — he really doesn't —

“You don't know them”, Grantaire finally says. 

“Oh, do you?”, snaps Enjolras. He's so angry, he doesn't even know why he's so angry at Grantaire, but he is. Maybe because he didn't say a word during breakfast, on Sunday morning, or maybe because he got dressed so fast, or maybe because doing so he never really smiled to Enjolras, or never really met his eyes. 

There's a quiet knock on the car window, on Grantaire's side. A woman, pale as a sheet and with big eyes, is staring at the inside of the car. She has wild, brown, curly hair, messily tied up in a bun, and a crumpled dark dress. Her make up is smudged. “Grantaire?”, she clearly asks, even though the window is not rolled down and Enjolras can't hear her voice.

Grantaire shoots a look at Enjolras, before stepping outside the car to hug the woman: “Mrs. Thénardier! It's been so long, I'm so sorry for your son. My colleagues here, from CBI, are going to do everything they can to find him”. 

Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac get outside the car, as the woman nods and says: “Do you collaborate with the police, now? What a great use of your gift, I'm so happy for you”.

To a stranger's eye, Grantaire's polite face doesn't change the slightest; after six years, though, Enjolras has learned to see through the several layers of Grantaire's kindness and airiness, and he clearly sees his face fall. “Madame, I am not a psychic. You know I'm not. I deceived and tricked you. I am not actually in contact with the afterlife”, he says. 

Beside Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac fidget uncomfortably.

“A place this huge must have menservants; find them and interrogate them, please”, Enjolras whispers to Combeferre's ear, taking pity on him and his colleague. Combeferre nods curtly and walks away with Courfeyrac. 

Mrs. Thénardier looks at Grantaire with wide eyes, slightly taken aback. “Of course”, she says, eventually. “Of course you rinnegate your gift. You collaborate with the police, how could you be frank about that? But don't worry, your secret is safe with me”. 

Grantaire's eyes become inexplicably sad. Enjolras wishes he could hug him tight and let him know how much he values him. Throughout the years, Grantaire has always sold himself as cocky, but Enjolras suspects that, deep down, there's nothing in the world he deprecates more than himself.

There's nothing _, nothing_ , Grantaire believes in, except maybe his own liability.

“Madame, I really don't —”, he starts to say, but Enjolras has no time to waste, so he interrupts him. “Mrs. Thénardier, right? I'm Special Agent Enjolras, from CBI”; she shakes his hand. “I'd like to ask you a few questions about your son. But first of all, where's your husband?”.

 

As soon as Mrs. Thénardier starts answering Enjolras' questions, Grantaire literally vanishes; he does that often — snooping around, going where he shouldn't be allowed to go, asking questions, staring at pictures, stuff like that. He also stole objects a few times, got in a fight twice, _started_ a fight three times, set a chair on fire once and got yelled at more times than Enjolras can count. He doesn't even bother to worry anymore; he'll deal with consequences if he has to, but he doesn't want to work with anybody else. Grantaire can be annoying as fuck, but he sure knows how to do his job, and he's a good partner at work. Not the best, because there's surely someone in the world that causes less trouble than him, but he's good. Enjolras wouldn't trade him for anyone, not even Sherlock Holmes. 

When Enjolras is done with Mrs. Thénardier (turns out her husband's out of town for business, he's coming back as soon as he can), he finds Grantaire sitting on a bench in the garden, staring at a hedge. There's a girl sat beside him, and they're sharing a cigarette.

The girl has short, dark hair, brown eyes and a nose ring; she's wearing a worn t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. She must be about their age, but she somehow manages to look younger and older at the same time.

“This is Éponine”, Grantaire says, conversationally, without breaking eye contact with the hedge. 

“Nice to meet you”, says Enjolras, shaking the hand she's offering. “Does your mother know you had a part in the fraud she was a victim of?”

Éponine takes a drag and grins: “She doesn't. But even if she knew, God help me if she'd give a shit. She's rich, she doesn't care. I suspect she and my father bathe in secret pools full of dollars after we are gone to bed, in the evening. Azelma caught them doing it on a pile of cash once”. 

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Azelma?”, he chooses to asks, above anything else.

“They have three children”, Éponine informs him, shooting Grantaire a quick glance. “It's me, Azelma and Gavroche. Azelma is twenty-two. I don't know why we are still here, to be honest. They treat us like shit”. After a beat, she adds: “No, I know, actually. It's for Gavroche that we're both still here, of course. He's only nine, we can't leave him with them, and our works don’t pay off well enough to leave”. 

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, trying to get his attention to silently ask him if he thinks the Thénardier children might've been abused in the past — but Grantaire is sternly staring at the hedge. 

Enjolras opens his mouth to ask another question, but Grantaire suddenly beats him: “Do you have a gardener?”, he asks. “I need a gardener. My garden's a mess”. Enjolras is pretty sure Grantaire doesn't have a garden. He never mentioned it.

Éponine shrugs, undeterred by the strangeness of the question: “We do. He comes here every morning, I think, to water the plants and chop off branches and leaves. We clearly underpay him but he looks happy with his job, so, whatever”.

“Your mother seems nice, though”, considers Grantaire, finally turning his head towards Éponine.

Enjolras has known him long enough to know that he wants to study her reaction; her cheeks get flushed. “She looks nice and kind, and my father looks like some kind of fucked up comforter, or philosopher, a bit eccentric and intellectual, but they're both life long shits, trust me. They didn't buy Gavroche the textbooks he needed for school because they said we had to save money, and a week later they bought a new, huge TV in HD. I'm not sure they'd pay to save him. Actually, if he was killed, they'd gain even more money, so they'd probably be happy about it”.

Grantaire says “But they called us, didn't they?” in the exact same moment Enjolras asks “ _Even more money_?”.

Enjolras and Grantaire share a quick, angry glance at each other; Éponine looks undeterred, again: “Are you sure you two are colleagues?”, she asks, sounding actually unconvinced. “Anyway, the neighbours talk, you know. If my brother disappeared, they'd notice. My mother cares a lot about neighbours”. She takes the last drag of the cigarette, then throws it away. “As for the money, my father's dad left his fortune to me, Azelma and Gavroche. Gav is still a minor. If he dies, his part goes to them. My granddad thought us safe this way, who kills their child for money? But he didn't really think it through, did he? They _are_ capable of killing for money”.

Enjolras and Grantaire thank Éponine for her time, then walk to Enjolras' car.

“What do you think?”, Enjolras asks, staring carefully at his surroundings to avoid Grantaire's gaze. 

“Éponine thinks her mother kidnapped Gavroche. She really does, but she doesn't have proof”, Grantaire answers. “She didn't give me their gardener's number, though. I really needed that”.

“You _don't need_ a gardener”, snaps Enjolras, unlocking his car. 

“Are we going to leave your minions here?”, asks Grantaire peacefully, instead of actually answering Enjolras’ implicit question.

Enjolras shakes his head. “They're on their way. We are waiting for them”. 

Grantaire hums noncommittally; he gets in the car, then speaks: “Mrs. Thénardier is the kind of woman that thinks she's profoundly unhappy, but she's not. She's rich, she has a husband she loves, in her own twisted way. She wasn't born rich, though, so she thinks she deserves every single coin she gains, legally or illegally. It's her and her husband against the world. Éponine is right, she doesn't give a damn about them“.

Enjolras stares at his own hands, on the wheel. “She told me she has a new psychic. She hired him a few years ago, keeps her in contact with the afterlife. Did you meet him? He's inside with her, and he’s coming at the CBI one of these days. He didn’t want to be asked questions here”.

Grantaire snorts, but it doesn't feel like a genuine snort. It sounds more like the kind of snort he does to keep up his character. “I didn't meet him, but I bet he's around his forties, wears a suit, probably beige; he also probably hates ties and looks at the ceiling when he's pretending to have a vision”.

Reluctantly, Enjolras smiles. “That's almost entirely right, but he _had_ a tie”. After a beat, he  decides to dare and he adds: “You don't have to feel guilty, you know”, but he doesn’t turn his head.

He feels Grantaire shift uncomfortably in his seat. “I do not feel guilty”. Since Enjolras can tell he's lying, he probably wants Enjolras to know he's lying. 

Enjolras gives up and turns to look at him. Grantaire is already staring. “You do, but you don't have to. If anything, you gave her the kind of hope she needed. You're different now, and you're a good man. _You're a good man_ , Grantaire. You didn't mean to do any harm. What you did was dishonest, it's true, it was. But it wasn't harmful”. The honesty of his own words scares Enjolras more than he's willing to admit.

Grantaire's lips curl in a sour smile. “It wasn't harmful? My daughter and my wife were killed, Apollo”.

There he is, with that nickname again. Enjolras sort of hates it on the surface, but deep down he loves it, and he is aware of that. If Grantaire stopped calling him Apollo, the world would probably stop turning. 

“You didn't mean—”, he starts to say, but in that exact moment Grantaire snaps: “I didn't mean, but I did. And I was. I was mean to the wrong person, and I was forced to face the consequences. I never mean to harm anybody, Enjolras, but somehow I always do. It took me five years to kill Red John, the only person I ever wanted to harm, but only a week to indirectly kill my family. It was me. I'm always the quickest to damage the things I love the most. I'm the anti-Midas, what I touch, I spoil. I'm fucked up that way”.

The thing is, Enjolras knows he's not. He knows he's not fucked up that way, because he has worked with him for six years. He's seen his face brighten up when playing with dogs, talking to children, drinking some tea. He's seen him being gratuitously kind, he's seen him closing many dead bodies' eyes, comforting an endless stream of mourning families. What Grantaire kindly touches, it blooms. Even Enjolras, Saturday night — he bloomed between his fingers; he stopped caring, he stopped worrying for once in his life. Grantaire's blinded him with need, need, need, a pounding need to be alive. That is not fucking up. Enjolras knows, for a fact, that it's not.

He doesn't have the time to say any of these things, though, because Combeferre and Courfeyrac choose that exact moment to get in the car. 

If they sense the tension, they don't say anything.

Enjolras starts the engine.

Combeferre informs him that, of course, nobody has seen anything unusual. 

 

***

_Grantaire once told him that he likes to always have a memento mori._

_“It's Latin, it reminds me that someday I'm going to to die. That we're all going to die, and nothing we did on this wretched Earth is ever going to matter. New crimes are going to be committed. New people are going to have to endure new horrors”, he told Enjolras._

_“I'm going to die too, one day”, Enjolras said, without even knowing why._

_“Probably”, said Grantaire. “Or you're going to be taken up to Olympus, I'm still not sure”._

_Enjolras ignored the remark. “What is your memento mori?”, he asked instead._

_“My own bedroom“, Grantaire answered._

_Enjolras has always seen him sleep on their office's couch._

 

***

“What is up with you and Grantaire?”, Combeferre asks, as he pours himself a cup of coffee. 

“Me and Grantaire? Nothing's up with me and Grantaire”, Enjolras answers. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows that he spoke too quickly. 

Combeferre sips his coffee, and stares.

Combeferre has known him since high school; he doesn't need big dissuading techniques to convince him to talk, he just stares. Enjolras will eventually fail to endure the pressure of Combeferre's stare, and will confess everything. Most of the times, now, Enjolras confesses straight away without needing the Stare; the pressure Combeferre manages to put on him is just the worst.

“Okay, well, maybe something's up with me and Grantaire“, he eventually concedes, as he checks if the water for Grantaire's tea is boiling. 

“You bicker”, states Combeferre. “More than usual, I mean. And you always stare at each other when you think the other one's not looking. Which is so teenage cliché I just may vomit”.

“We kissed”, Enjolras surrenders, because there is no point in denying that. He knows a lost cause when he sees one; it stares back at him every morning in the mirror. “He slept at mine, but we didn't do anything. Sunday morning he got up and left. We didn't talk about it. That's all”.

Combeferre is quiet for a long time; Enjolras pours the hot water in Grantaire's designed cup and adds his favourite bag of tea leaves. 

“Do you know why he did that?”, Combeferre finally asks.

“Why he got up and left?”, replies Enjolras, lifting his eyebrows. “Probably because he was drunk off his ass on Saturday night and he realised the huge mistake he had made on Sunday morning”. 

Combeferre stares. “You really think that?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something, but then finds out that he doesn't really know what to say, so he just holds out his arms and stares back at Combeferre, speechless. 

“You know how to make his favourite tea but you don't know why he got up and left after kissing you and sleeping with you?”, Combeferre asks again. “You're a great agent, Enjolras, you are, but you must be stupid”.

Enjolras grumbles.

“Talk to him”, says Combeferre, categorical. 

Enjolras nods. 

He knows he won't.

 

***

“Do you happen to have your gardener's number in your phone?”, is the first question Grantaire asks Mr. Thénardier.

Enjolras, sat on the Thénardiers' sofa, in their living room, shoots a glance at him; he hopes it looks murderous. _What's up with their fucking gardener?,_ he wants to ask, but he knows Grantaire wouldn't answer him and he can’t do it right in front of a suspect.

Thénardier looks startled: “I don't know, honestly, I never needed it, but he's coming here in a few hours anyway, I think”.

Grantaire's face positively beams: “Marvellous. How has your trip been, sir?”

Thénardier stares at Grantaire as if he can't tell if he's serious or not. Enjolras decides it's time to intervene: “Why were you out of town anyway?”.

Mr. Thénardier puts some sugar in his coffee. As far as Enjolras knows, he arrived in Sacramento at six in the morning and went straight at home to talk to them, so he still hasn't had any breakfast. “We own a restaurant chain here in California, I suppose you know that. We want to expand and open a place in Chicago, so I had to go and deal with...” he waves an hand. “Business stuff. See the place, discuss the money”.

“Do you usually have breakfast together in the morning?”, asks Grantaire, completely out of the blue, staring very intensely at Mr. Thénardier's breakfast tray. “You and your family, I mean”.

Mr. Thénardier gulps down a sip of his coffee. “No. Gavroche has to be at school at eight o'clock, and me and my wife prefer to work late instead of getting up early in the morning. Usually it's him, Azelma and Éponine who have breakfast together. That's what they tell us anyway”.

“Can someone testify that you were in Chicago the morning Gavroche was kidnapped?”, asks Enjolras, flipping his small notepad open and writing down a few things. Combeferre uses his iPad, but Enjolras is old school. Grantaire would mock him all the time if he was absolutely sure Enjolras wouldn't shoot him to shut him up.

“Yeah”, Thénardier says. “I'll give you the names”.

“Why are you so sure Gavroche was kidnapped?”, asks Grantaire, now looking intensely at Thénardier. “How do you know he didn't just run away, or something like that?”.

Thénardier stares back at Grantaire; for the first time in the whole conversation, he looks resolute: “I know Éponine told you a lot of bad things about us. And maybe she's right, maybe we are not good people, I don't know. But Gavroche is a good kid, and he's not stupid. Had he wanted to leave, he would've packed up his stuff and left. He wouldn't have left his Nintendo here. He would've stolen us money. He's smarter than leaving with a spray-painted red and white t-shirt anyone could recognise, his school backpack and no cash in his pockets”. 

Grantaire doesn't respond, but looks intrigued; Mr. Thénardier speaks again: “You're a psychic, aren't you? I want to know if Gavroche is alive”.

“So you can steal his grandad's part?”, a female voice inquires from behind. 

Enjolras turns his head; from the door that probably leads to the staircase emerges a young woman, with dark hair, loosely curly. She has green eyes and looks very thin, like Éponine and Mrs. Thénardier do, but her facial structure resembles Mr. Thénardier's. 

“Azelma”, her father warns tiredly. “We've guests. Please restrain yourself”.

“I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but it's not”, she says sourly to Enjolras. 

“Likewise. Not in these conditions, at least”, Enjolras says, politely. “I'm Special Agent Enjolras, anyway, and this is my colleague Grantaire, from CBI”.

Azelma's eyes sharpen as she looks at Grantaire. “The famous Grantaire, aren't you?”.

Grantaire smiles charmingly. “The one and only”, he says, walking towards her. “Azelma, nice to finally meet you. You seem stressed and tired, though, do you want to go for a walk? I'm sure my colleague has a lot of things he'd like to ask you, but we don't have to stay here”. Grantaire turns towards Enjolras. “I think we're done with Mr. Thénardier, aren't we?”.

Enjolras stares at Grantaire; he's gotten used to his manners throughout the years, and while he still finds them irritating and confusing, he can tell when he's got a plan in mind, and he knows that he almost never fails. “I think we're done, yeah. Thank you for your time”, he eventually says, smiling at Thénardier and getting up on his feet. The couch he was sitting on was uncomfortable anyway.

Grantaire gestures towards Azelma. “Lead the way. It's your home, after all”. He never stops smiling.

Azelma looks borderline pissed off, but she starts walking towards the door that leads to their garden. She strolls towards the same area Éponine and Grantaire were sitting at, yesterday. Grantaire winks at Enjolras, and then follows her; on his way out, for some inexplicable reason, Grantaire quickly checks the trash can.

Enjolras can do nothing but tag along.

Azelma walks past Grantaire and Éponine's bench and chooses to sit on one that's close to a bush of pink roses. Enjolras sits beside her, Grantaire stays on his feet.

“That's a beautiful garden”, Grantaire says, looking around as if it was the first time. “My daughter would've loved to play in it”.

Enjolras stiffens; Azelma does not. “Do you have a daughter?”, she asks, glancing at Grantaire's wedding ring. Enjolras has never seen him without it.  

Grantaire shrugs, but smiles pleasantly. “We always used to play hide and seek on the beach, and I had to build a house on a tree for her. She loved it”.

Azelma nods understandingly. “My father used to do that too, when Éponine and I were little. Then he kind of lost his touch, and Éponine started university, so I was the only one left to humour Gavroche and play in the garden. We played pirates, and knights, with pursuits and secret passages. It was fun”.

“He trusts you, doesn't he?“, Enjolras asks, tilting his head. 

Azelma nods again. “We always do that stupid trust game, you know? Let yourself fall, have faith in who's behind you to catch you. We always have. Caught each other, I mean. He deserves better than to be treated like my parents do”. She lifts her gaze up to the sky. 

“Do you walk him to the bus stop?”, Enjolras asks, following her gaze. He regrets having forgotten his sunglasses at home. The sky is blue, and bright, and clear.

Beside him, Azelma shakes her head, but answers: “Only sometimes. Gavroche has always been pretty independent. He didn't want us to go with him too often, he would've felt ashamed”.

“Do you know that nobody saw him at all, on Monday morning?”, Grantaire asks, hands on his hips and absent eyes. “It's like he vanished”.

Azelma lowers her gaze, from the sky to Grantaire. “Éponine and I saw him”, she says, playing restlessly with her fingers. “We had breakfast, and then he left for school. I feel so guilty for not going with him, now”.

“It's not your fault when someone else steals something from you”, Grantaire says, even if, had been Enjolras the one to say that, he would've argued that it could be debatable. 

“What did you do after he left?”, Enjolras asks. 

“I left too. I had class”, Azelma says. She looks calmer now, more collected, but her eyes are tired and her left knee is restlessly going up and down.

Enjolras gets up. “I'm sure we're going to have more questions for you, but in the meantime, that's all. Thank you for your time”.

Grantaire lifts his index, preventing Enjolras from walking away: “One last thing. Do you know when your gardener's coming, today?”.

Azelma looks at him in confusion. “He's arriving in about 30 minutes. Why?”.

Grantaire shrugs. “I'd like to have tips on how to handle my tree house”, he answers, kindly. “My daughter doesn't use that anymore, and I have to know how to deal with rotten wood”.

Azelma smiles for the first time in the conversation and clicks her tongue: “Never let them grow up, Mr. Grantaire. Never let them grow up”.

 

***

_Grantaire once told him that he has three great pleasures in life: tea, Greek literature and cynism. Then he stopped to think about it, and amended: “Four, actually. There's also revenge, but that's due to the turn my life took, I hope it is not permanent. It's like a temporary pleasure. Is this a thing?”._

_Enjolras thought about it, then said: “Mine are coffee, political essays and idealism”. Then, he added: “My fourth and temporary pleasure is preventing you from doing shit”._

_Grantaire grinned: “See?”, he said. “We're a perfect match”._

 

***

At the end of every working day, when they have a case, they sit down in the office and make stock of the situation. 

They list the suspects, check the alibis, wrap stuff up, see what the forensic department has found. 

Grantaire calls this ritual their “Reality Check” and Enjolras, even though he doesn't quite know why, has started getting used to it throughout the years. He doesn't fully understand why Grantaire calls it this way, but it amuses Jehan and Courfeyrac so he figures it must be some clever joke he'll never get to comprehend. 

Jehan and Courfeyrac have always been the ones in the team more prone to joke around and lighten up the mood. Working at CBI can be nerve-wrecking, and somehow they always manage to throw a comment in, make a bad pun, share a smile, without ever being inappropriate or offensive.

Grantaire is very different from them. He is playful, and arrogant, and often acts like a 5-years-old, but he has not a light heart to the core like Jehan and Courfeyrac do.

His suffering and his self-loathing follow him around like faithful puppies. Grantaire often knows how to make a person feel better, but he not always deliberately does.

“So”, Combeferre says, staring at their blackboard in the middle of the office. “This is what we know: Gavroche Thénardier gets up, has breakfast with his sisters and supposedly leaves his house on 7:30 AM, on Monday morning. He never gets to the bus stop, and nobody has seen him walking the street. Éponine Thénardier takes her car and leaves to go to work at 7:25, since her shift starts at 7:35 and she can't be late. Her co-workers say she was punctual, so it's unlikely that she might've had the time to kidnap Gavroche, take him somewhere and then go to work. Azelma Thénardier leaves at 8:00, since her morning class starts at 8:15 in the morning. Mrs. Thénardier is supposedly sleeping at the time, and Mr. Thénardier is in Chicago for business. We didn’t get any ransom demand”.

“How do we know the exact time for each member of the family?”, asks Jehan, raising his hand up. He's sitting on a chair, feet on the desk. Enjolras has tried to dissuade him from doing that, but he has never stopped.

“There are security cameras in the nearest shop”, answers Courfeyrac, staring at his own computer. “We saw Éponine's car and Azelma's bike pass by, but we didn't see Gavroche. We can only suppose that he left at 7:30, based on what we were told about his habits”.

“Éponine might be lying, though. She might've kidnapped her brother before, let's say during breakfast, for example”, Enjolras points out.

“That would mean that Azelma's involved too, though. Also, I would consider Mrs. Thénardier. She's the only one that doesn't have a tight schedule in the morning, and the only one that would benefit from the boy's death”, Combeferre answers, shaking his head.

“Has anyone noticed that nobody looks concerned, though, except for her?”, says Enjolras. “She was the only one who looked slightly traumatised by the situation, and she seemed very concerned”.

“That's because it's what you do. What is the first thing that you want other people to notice when your son is missing if you're the one who took him? That you're worried.”, intervenes Grantaire from his sofa.

“Are your bets on Mrs. Thénardier, then?”, asks Jehan, who is the one in the team that trusts Grantaire's haunches the most.

Grantaire shrugs. “She has a motive. She had the opportunity. She had the time”.

“Why does it have to be a family member?”, inquires Combeferre, staring at his iPad. “Why not the psychic, or someone else? I asked Montparnasse to check if there are any pedophiles that have been recently released, and two other children have been kidnapped in Sacramento, last week”. He shows them two pictures of two young boys with dark hair.

“The psychic was having breakfast with his wife and daughter at the time Gavroche was taken. Does Montparnasse know who took the two other children, though?”, asks Courfeyrac, lifting his gaze on Combeferre and looking disgusted.

“He doesn't. But they're investigating on a plumber, he was in the area both times and has been accused of harassment twice. He was in the area on Monday, it could be him”.

Grantaire snorts. “No fucking way”.

Enjolras stares at him. “Why not? It would make sense. More than Azelma or Éponine, anyway”.

Grantaire stares back. “You're dumb. Have you seen the pictures? The first kid that was taken has brown hair, the second one has dark hair. The plumber, or whoever is, has clearly a type. Gavroche is freaking blonde”.

“This is your brilliant deduction? It can't be a pedophile because Gavroche is blonde?”, snaps Enjolras, who is starting to lose his patience.

“Your brilliant deduction was that Mrs. Thénardier looked concerned because she can't find her son, Apollo, isn't the pot calling the kettle black?”, says Grantaire, sitting straighter as if bracing himself for a fight.

Enjolras stands up on his feet; his wheeled chair recoils of a few inches. “You stand there, snort, do nothing but mock us and disrupt our work and you have the courage to tell me —”, he says, and he's aware that he's raising his voice, but he doesn't care.

“Well, we've been working together for six fucking years and you still honestly believe that all I do is spout bullshit to make your life hard —”, Grantaire starts yelling back.

“— and you're playing the know-it-all of the situation but you're obviously shooting in the dark—”

“99 out of 100 times when a kid goes missing, he’s with a parent or relative, Apollo, what the —”

“ _Are you quoting Stranger Things at me?_ You're the most annoying, childish person, disruptive and irritating, all you do is take naps —”

“— what does that even mean? Are you seriously stupid enough to—”

“— and you snore”, bites out Enjolras, because his own tongue completely out of control. He regrets saying that the exact moment he says it, because Courfeyrac starts giggling nervously and Grantaire abruptly shuts up. 

“You don't”, he says, quietly, and Enjolras can see that he hurt him. He feels awful. And a liar. And a petulant child.

“You don't either”, he mutters under his breath. “I don't know why I said that”.

A poignant silence follows.

It's Combeferre the one to break it: “We are all very tired”, he says. “I think we should go back home, and continue tomorrow”.

Very slowly, Grantaire nods and plops down on his sofa, never breaking eye contact with Enjolras. “Yeah”, he says. “I agree”.

Enjolras stays still where he stands, even when Jehan, Combeferre and Courfeyrac start packing up and getting ready to leave. “Boss?”, Courfeyrac asks. “Are you coming?”.

Enjolras shakes his head. “I have to take care of a few things first. Be ready for tomorrow morning, the Thénardier's psychic is coming here”. He turns to wave at them: “Good night”.

Combeferre throws him a significant look that means many things, most important of which are ‘what was that’, ‘talk to him’, ‘get your shit together’ and ‘have some rest’. Enjolras nods, and the rest of the team leaves. 

It's him and Grantaire now. Enjolras knows he has to say he's sorry, but he doesn't know how. To gain some time, he sits at his desk and actually tries to get some work done. At some point, without saying anything, Grantaire gets up and walks out of the office, only to return minutes later with a mug of hot chocolate. He places it on Enjolras' desk, and lies down again on the couch.

Enjolras stares at the mug. This situation makes him uncomfortable, because Grantaire constantly makes him lose his mind. He throws him off guard, makes him unsteady and makes him wish he could do reckless things that he would never consider doing otherwise.

“Have you eventually talked with the gardener?”, Enjolras ends up asking, because he's a moron that way. He holds the mug in his hands and takes a sip. It's good. He keeps drinking it.

Grantaire, laid on the sofa with his eyes closed, seems to sense the request of a truce and looks up to Enjolras. He has dark circles under his eyes, and a five o'clock shadow  on his jaw. “I did. We've had a very long walk in the woods and a very long chat about children games, hedges and rotten wood. It was enlightening”, he says, not unkindly. “He even told me that on vacation days from school Gavroche offers him some of his hot cocoa and talks to him while he works”. 

“That's — interesting”, Enjolras says. He gets up from his desk and gulps down the last drops of hot chocolate. Then, he crouches on his knees to level up his face with Grantaire's. “Listen, R, about what I said, it was unprofessional of me and I'm sorry that —”. Grantaire turns his head and interrupts him with a finger on his mouth. “Let it be, Apollo. No worries, I can see you didn't mean that”. He grins. “I know that I'm quiet and charming asleep as much as I am awake”. 

Enjolras can't help but roll his eyes. “Shut up”, he says, but he knows that he's smiling. His head feels fuzzy, though.

Grantaire's grin gets wider. He smells like fresh air and pine. “Make me”. 

He could kiss him, right now. He could simply surge forward and press his own lips on Grantaire's. He really should, because he wants to do that _so much_. 

Enjolras gets closer, until their noses are touching; he wants to do that, he really does, but his limbs are progressively getting numb and his mind is progressively getting cloudy. He feels dizzy.

Grantaire is watching him with a strange anticipation in his eyes that can't be totally classified as arousal, even though his pupils are more blown than usual. 

Enjolras suddenly feels the urge to sleep for a thousand years. Bonus if it's going to be in Grantaire's arms, so “Grantaire”, he says, hoping to converge all his wishes and needs in one word.

Grantaire shushes him, quietly and kindly, and tangles a hand through Enjolras' hair; “Sleep”, he whispers. 

Enjolras does, content that Grantaire understood.

 

When he wakes up, he's still in the office. He's curled up on Grantaire's sofa and Grantaire is sat at his desk, checking his wristwatch and humming a song under his breath.

Enjolras clicks his tongue to shake some dizziness from his body: “What time is it?”, he asks. Grantaire lifts his gaze and grins.

“Five in the morning”, he answers. 

Enjolras tries to make a rapid calculation. “Did I sleep for _six hours_?”, he asks, incredulous. He hasn't slept for six hours since Christmas holidays, for God's sake. He can't _physically_ sleep for six hours, both because of his work schedule and because of his own brain. 

“Yep, you did”, answers Grantaire, cheerfully. His clothes are slightly crumpled, but different from the ones he was wearing the day before, and he has a worn, oddly satisfied, look on his face.

Enjolras sits up straighter, and stares at the blanket that's been draped over him. “Grantaire”, he says, a suspicion creeping horribly in his insides, anger ready to rise in flames. “ _Did you fucking drug me?”_

Grantaire opens his mouth and then closes it again. He looks torn between lying for the sake of his safety and telling the truth despite his certain death. “I might have drugged you, just a tiny bit”, he admits, in the end. “But you looked like you were dead on your feet!”, he hurriedly adds, when Enjolras' hand goes to his gun. “You needed it so badly! And you helped me a lot”.

Enjolras narrows his eyes and goes very still, trying to figure out if Grantaire is being honest. “What do you mean, I helped you?”, he eventually asks. 

“I needed confirmation that you don't look like Grumpy the dwarf even when you're asleep”, Grantaire answers with a big smile on his face. Enjolras wants to shoot him in the chest. Very badly. But he probably won't, because the CBI needs him. 

“I also took a very cute picture!”, Grantaire hurriedly adds, jumping on his feet and running away to hide behind Jehan's empty desk. 

Enjolras was wrong. He is definitely going to kill him. Their office is still deserted, no one is going to ever witness his death. He'll tell everyone that Grantaire ran away in Guatemala. They're going to believe him, he can be very convincing. 

He gets up from the sofa and voices his thoughts, approaching Jehan's desk. Grantaire honest-to-God _shrieks_ and raises his hands in the air. “I'm never going to tell anyone! I swear! I'm innocent! No — I'm still young — I can offer you breakfast!”, he screams, when Enjolras stops in front of him with a murderous look on his face and very murderous intentions. 

“Offer me breakfast?”, he asks, raising an eyebrow. “So what, so you can drug me again?”

Grantaire attempts an hesitant smile: “I love you too much to drug you twice in the space of one day”, he says. 

Enjolras scowls on the outside, but his heart skips a beat on the inside. “Offer me this goddamn breakfast, then. And then I'll go home to at least get changed”, he relents, carefully keeping his voice blank.

Grantaire stands up with a grin on his face, and nods yes. “Your wish is my command”, he says.

Enjolras' scowl deepens. “If only it were true”, he mumbles; Grantaire's response is a full-body laugh and a “Don't try to change me, Apollo. I'm awesome the way I am”.

Enjolras wishes Grantaire really believed that.

He does. 

 

***

“Can I ask you a question?”, Grantaire asks, looking around Enjolras' apartment. He's standing on his feet, in front of the door, as if he was afraid to make himself comfortable. It would be a first if it were true, because Grantaire has never had problems with making himself home in any place.

“I bet you already know the answer, but sure, go on”, Enjolras answers, kicking away his shoes and starting to unknot his tie. Grantaire has always been good at reading people; to him, every person is like a children's book, too easy to read. Enjolras highly doubts that he can give him an answer that he doesn't already know, whatever the question might be.

Grantaire slightly winces: “You think too highly of me. If I knew everything, I would be Jesus, and someone once told me that it's too much, even for me”. Enjolras laughs, shrugs and disappears in his bathroom, to at least wash himself the best he can without having a shower; it's too late to have a shower.

“Anyway”, Grantaire says loudly from behind the closed door. “Here's the question. Why do you still have cardboard boxes all over the place? Didn't you already live here when we met?”. After a beat, he adds. “I don't mean to be judgemental. It's simple curiosity”.

Enjolras bits his lower lip. The thing is, he doesn't even know why he still hasn't fully unpacked after seven years in the same apartment. He always tells himself that he's too busy and he's never home, so it's not like he has free time and he needs much stuff, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“Do you believe me if I tell you that I don't know?”, he says, honestly. He dries himself with a towel and swings the door open. Grantaire, who was evidently leaning on it, stumbles backwards; Enjolras catches him by the arm.

“Yes”, says Grantaire. He scans Enjolras' bare chest with a calm and collected stare. “I do shit I don't know how to justify the whole time”. 

“Like what? Like harassing an entire family whose child is missing to get a gardener's number?”, Enjolras asks, with a smirk on his face.

Grantaire doesn't respond, as he's staring at Enjolras; for the second time in less than twelve hours, Enjolras feels like he could kiss him — so that maybe, just _maybe_ , he could get rid of that churning desire and need that's burning his stomach.

If he had the guts and they weren't running late, he would kiss Grantaire until his lips were swollen and red. If he had the guts, he would unknot his tie and unbutton his shirt; he would lead him backwards to his own bed, he would kiss and kiss and kiss Grantaire until Enjolras could be able to feel that Grantaire wants Enjolras as much as Enjolras wants him; and then his fingers would go through Grantaire's hair, and scratch Grantaire's back, and he would let him fuck him, slowly or wildly, he wouldn't really care, so that maybe — _maybe_ — that pounding want he feels in his veins would disappear. And afterwards they would talk, and Enjolras would ask him to stay, just so he could keep feeling the heat of his body and the brightness of his smirks, and drink them from his lips —

“Go get changed”, Grantaire says, his voice slightly strangled and suddenly nervous. “Or we're going to be late”. Then he grins, all nervousness vanished. “I don't want to miss the psychic for anything in the world”.

Enjolras does as he's told.

When he gets out of his bedroom, Grantaire is staring at the few family photos Enjolras has hung on the wall. 

“She's my half-sister”, he says, noticing that Grantaire is looking at a particular picture. He doesn't know why he says it; Grantaire has seen her once or twice. 

Grantaire, Enjolras finds out, is nice enough to not point that out: “Cosette, right?”, he asks.

Enjolras walks beside him and looks at the bright blue eyes of Cosette. “Yeah”, it's all that he says.

Grantaire tilts his head. He looks curious, the kind of innocent curiosity that usually only children have. “Who's the guy beside her?”

“It's Marius”, Enjolras answers. “Her boyfriend”. He almost manages to not wince. It's not that he doesn't like Marius, he does. He's a nice guy, he's quiet, a little awkward and shy, but he's a good match for his sister. It's just that every time he thinks of them together, he is remembered about how nice his father was, before his mother died. He was kind and quiet, just like Marius. 

“You know”, Grantaire speaks again. “Marius is not him”.

Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire; he has his hands joined together behind his back, and the face of a person that has the capability to read the world, but still doesn't understand a single sentence of what he reads. If that makes sense.

“I know”, Enjolras chokes out. Then: “Rationally”, he adds.

When has every interaction he has with Grantaire become so intense? It wasn't like that before. Sure, they've had their moments, but they were capable of keeping it nice and light. 

This is cathartic, in a sense, but exhausting. 

“And you're not your father, either”, Grantaire supplies, not unkindly. “You're anybody but yourself”. 

The last bit seems directed more at himself than Enjolras.

In a sudden moment of clarity, Enjolras remembers what Combeferre told him, and understands: _“You know how to make his favourite tea but you don't know why he got up and left after kissing you and sleeping with you?”._

 

His phone rings. Courfeyrac tells him that the psychic has arrived at CBI.

“We're on our way”, Enjolras tells him.

He thinks that maybe it is more than literally true.

 

***

_Grantaire once asked him, “How do you feel about Jesus?”._

_Enjolras lifted his gaze from the paperwork he was taking care of and shrugged. “I'm catholic. I believe there's a greater good, you know. Some afterlife. There must be something”._

_“The truth is out there”, mumbled Grantaire from his designated sofa, playing distractedly with a deck of cards._

_Enjolras lifted his eyebrows: “God is not a UFO, Grantaire”._

_Grantaire mixed his cards, staring resolutely at Enjolras: “He's up there, isn't he? And he's surrounded by a shit ton of light, and nobody's ever seen him. Might as well be an alien”. When Enjolras sighed and started approaching his paperwork again, Grantaire added: “So you have faith, right? You believe in God, you go to church?”._

_“Sometimes I go to church”, admitted Enjolras, nodding. “I like this idea of a God that leaves you free of making bad choices and preaches love. I think it values humanity as such”._

_“But you're a_ policeman _”, said Grantaire. For once in his life, it didn't sound like he was mocking Enjolras; it looked like he was genuinely trying to understand, so Enjolras put his paperwork aside for a few moments to listen to him. “You don't have any proof he exists, how can you believe in a god that never showed himself?”._

_Enjolras thought it through. “Well, it is the definition of faith. You believe in something without any evidence to prove its existence. It's like a spiritual axiom. You know that a point has no dimension. You can't prove it, but our whole mathematical system is based off that axiom. It's the same with religion”._

_Grantaire didn't stop mixing his cards, but he seemed to be seriously considering Enjolras' answer. They had been working together for a year, and Grantaire always looked like he only opened his mouth to prove something he had in his mind. He never debated for the sake of intellectual exercise, he didn't seek confrontation, he didn't want to change his mind, he always had a point he wanted to make, a purpose he wanted to pursue._

_“What's the point in arresting psychics for fraud, then? They do exactly what Jesus did in the temple, when he said he got haunches from his godly Father. He declared truths about life and the universe and people accepted them, like you accept an axiom.”, Grantaire said then. He started to line up his cards on the free cushion beside the one were he was seated. “You arrest psychics and you could be the new Herod, doesn't it make you feel guilty?”_

_Enjolras snorted. “Are you comparing yourself to Jesus? Or Jesus to a psychic in general? Because, you know, that's too much, even for you”._

_Grantaire shrugged: “I honestly don't see much of a difference. The same logics could be applied on murderers. Murderers are strong personalities that try to affirm theirselves and their rules, crude but effective, in a society in disintegration, devoid of any values”. Grantaire turned his first card. King of spades. “They punish wrongs with death and reward the ones who conform to their ideology with life. Isn't it what God does?”. He turned his second card. Jack of diamonds. “Be good and you go to Heaven, be bad and you go to Hell. Wouldn't it be segregationist sociopathy in our modern society?”._

_Enjolras gaped at him for two solid minutes. Grantaire was so wrong in so many ways, and yet he couldn't decide on where to start explaining why._

_In the end, he just shook his head and came back to his papers. “You know what? Never mind”, he said._

_Grantaire interrupted his game of cards to look at him. “Did I upset you? I just wanted to understand. I'm sorry”._

_Enjolras peaked at him. “You're not”, he said, but he remembers that he was smiling._

_Grantaire grinned in response. “I really am, but you wouldn't have faith in me anyway”._

 

***

Mr. Babet is around his forties and wears a beige suit, just like Grantaire predicted. He is skinny, artificially tanned, with short black hair full of hair product. Babet looks like a nervous, know-it-all family man, whose eyes are always darting from one side of the room to another.

“Look at him”, Grantaire tells the team, but especially Enjolras, before anyone enters the Interrogation Room. “He's searching for clues. Do you see how he's scanning the room? He's going to do the same with the one of you that's going to ask him questions, make deductions to throw you off balance. That's what psychics do”.

“Why do you think he looks so nervous?”, asks Jehan with a curious tone. “Babet has an alibi, right?”.

“He does, but he's alone now”, Grantaire answers, staring at the man through the obscured window and sipping his cup of tea. “Watch him become the epitome of calm and innocence as soon as someone's in front of him”.

“You should come with me”, Enjolras casually says. It's the first thing he's said since they left his apartment, and Grantaire gives him an odd look. Enjolras wonders if Grantaire is worried about having overstepped some boundaries with his questions about Cosette; he'd like to tell him that they threw boundaries to the wind a long time ago, but that's neither the place or the moment. 

When Grantaire doesn't say anything, Enjolras adds: “It makes sense, you're a better psychic than him. You're the one who can outwit him, just in case”.

“Who says he's a better psychic than Babet?”, jokes Courfeyrac with a teasing tone and a grin on his face. “I wouldn't bet on it, Babet looks pretty good to me”.

Grantaire gasps, falsely outraged: “How _dare you_ , doubt my abilities as a messenger of the afterlife!”; Courfeyrac and Jehan laugh, Combeferre quirks his lips and Enjolras cuts off the banter heading to the door. “C'mon, Hermes of the dead”, he deadpans. “Let's make Babet witness the best good-cop-mean-psychic show he's ever seen”.

Grantaire grins and follows him towards the Interrogation Room. Before going in, though, he turns to look at Combeferre: “How old is his daughter?”, he asks.

“Twelve”, Combeferre answers, checking his iPad.

“Alright”, Grantaire thanks him, winks and goes inside, shutting the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Babet”, Enjolras is saying. “Thanks for coming here”.

Just as Grantaire has said, Babet straightens and immediately looks calmer, almost lost. “You're welcome, Agent... Enjolras, right?”. Enjolras nods. “Yeah, we met on Monday. I got an aura of melancholy from you. I hope you will be able to dissipate it, someday. With the help of God, maybe”.

Enjolras smiles. It is the most fake smile Grantaire has even seen him make. “And what aura has Gavroche Thénardier, Mr. Babet?”.

Babet's face gets sad. “He's a good kid, but he feels neglected. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that he wasn't kidnapped, but he simply left instead. To pull a stunt, you know. See if anyone cares”. 

“You've got a daughter, don't you?”, Grantaire suddenly asks, emerging from the corner of the room. “Isn't she about the same age?”.

Babet makes a face. “I have, but she is older than Gavroche of a few years. She would never disappear like this, we do not neglect her”.

Enjolras immediately gets where Grantaire is trying to lead the conversation to, and asks: “So, what you're saying is that not only Gavroche feels neglected, but that he actually is neglected”.

For a split second Babet looks slightly panicked, but then he quickly recollects himself and shakes his head. “I never said that, Agent Enjolras. I can sense you had a shaky relationship with your alcoholic father, but it doesn't mean that —”. The look of Enjolras's face is pure fury. Before Enjolras can even begin to reply, shout or slap Babet, Grantaire intervenes, because the good-cop-mean-psychic façade has to stay intact: “Are we competing on which one of us has had the worst childhood? Because, you know, you never met your biological mother and you've stopped replying to your brothers' texts for ten years after basically defrauding them, so, you would definitely win”.

Babet's face whitens. “What did you say your name is, Agent—?”, he asks, clearly struggling to stay polite.

Grantaire grins: “I never said that”.

In the meantime, Enjolras seems to have regained some calm. “Grantaire, come on, behave, don't be rude to Mr. Babet”, he says, but Grantaire makes a scene of ignoring him: “Also, you probably have wanted a second child for, let's say, three years at least?, but your wife just _won't get pregnant_ , and the two of you have had a long chat about adoption but she is just not feeling like welcoming in her house the child of some drug addict, and you kind of share her view, so you're simply going to spoil the twelve-years-old daughter you already have, and keep buying her anything she wants, at least until the Thénardiers keep paying you a ridiculous amount of money to humor them with your psychic bullshit”.

Babet looks at the table in front of him and swallows. “If you claim to know all of this stuff, and you didn't just make up everything, then you must have the Gift too”, he says at last. “Suppressing it won't erase the shame and the guilt, you know. The Gift can be a blessing and a burden, especially for you. I _can_ sense your dark aurea, Agent Grantaire, and I can assure you that no matter how hard you're going to deny it —”; Babet lifts his gaze on Grantaire, and completes his sentence with a “it's _always_ going to be your fault”.

Enjolras quickly glances at Grantaire, and finds many emotions on his face. He looks sad, and he looks intrigued, and he looks disappointed; but worst of all, he doesn't look angry. 

Enjolras, on the contrary, feels rage flame up in his stomach. “Do you have any idea about who could've kidnapped Gavroche Thénardier, Mr. Babet?”, he asks, and does his best to not look annoyed. 

Babet turns his eyes at him. “No, I don't. But if I have a vision that tells me where the kid is, you're going to be the first to know that, Agent”. Then, he quietly adds: “Can I go now? Mrs. Thénardier is waiting for me. She has everything set up, and she's very distressed. She needs me and the counsel of her father.”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire and slightly raises his eyebrows, communicating silently that he's done and questioning if Grantaire needs to ask anything else. Grantaire imperceptibly shakes his head, and says: “You're a very perceptive man, Mr. Babet. I'm glad our paths have met, I think we're done here. Could you please do me a favour?”.

Babet smiles. Somehow, he looks genuine, even though Enjolras is pretty sure that he's not. “Yes, of course. Anything for a colleague”.

“If you meet Azelma Thénardier, could you please tell her that the ring she’s looking for is nearby the bench where Éponine usually smokes? Let's say near the hedge in front of that”, Grantaire tells him, smiling himself. He looks calm and composed, his voice pleasant enough, as if he were actually glad that he got to meet Babet.

“Of course. Of course, yes. I'll tell her. Can I go now?”, Babet asks, looking at Enjolras.

Enjolras gives him a sharp nod, and makes gesture for Babet to follow him out of the room. He instructs Courfeyrac to show him the way out, and then checks on Grantaire.

Enjolras finds him laying on his usual couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. It's rare for Grantaire to be completely still. His shirt is tight on his biceps, and his ankles are crossed. He mustn't be very comfortable, but doesn't look like he has any intention to move.

Sat next to Grantaire there's Jehan, talking to him in a low voice. “He didn't have any right to say that to you, R, I don't even know why you implicitly agreed with him”, Jehan's telling him. “You know he was wrong, he was wrong in so many ways, I'm sure that —”. Grantaire turns his head towards Jehan and grins, interrupting him: “You worry too much, Jehan. Don't worry so much. I'm fine. Do you want to see me do a trick on Enjolras?”.

“Enjolras doesn't want to be tricked”, Enjolras deadpans, attempting to lighten both Grantaire's and Jehan's mood. It's a poor attempt, and he knows it, but Grantaire laughs anyway and says: “Do you remember the card that you picked yesterday, Jehan?”. Jehan's eyes light up, because he loves cards tricks and that bastard of Grantaire knows that. “Yes”, he says, clapping his hands. Were anybody else, Enjolras would suspect that Jehan is being overly enthusiastic just to humor his colleague; but knowing Jehan, he's probably genuinely thrilled.

“It's in Enjolras' pocket”, Grantaire lazily says, closing his eyes as if bracing himself for a quick nap. 

Jehan lets out a honest-to-God screech and scrambles from the sofa, hurrying towards Enjolras.

“Let me see, let me see!”, he says, starting to touch and palpate Enjolras' torso through the man's jacket. Enjolras wriggles uncomfortably and tries to escape, because he feels violated, somehow: “This is not professional, Prouvaire, _please stop_ —”

Grantaire has opened his eyes and is watching the scene with amusement; his expression turns smug when Jehan shrieks, having found his card in Enjolras' right pocket. 

Enjolras gives up and allows himself to smile; he tells himself that it's because of Jehan's delight, but deep down he knows that it's because he has almost never seen Grantaire smiling so carelessly, and he wants Grantaire to keep smiling like that, because he loves it.

He _really_ loves it.

The sudden realisation hits deep in his guts, like a gunshot wound. He stops smiling, and starts bleeding. Enjolras expects his shirt to become red, but nothing happens, of course, because it's not like he's actually been shot. 

He's only just realised the most life-changing of all things, and it has happened in the midst of a cards trick. He's in love, and the card in his pocket is a Jack of hearts, and Grantaire is grinning like he thinks he's fucking Houdini and Enjolras loves him.

And he only figured it out now.

He's a great agent, but he really must be stupid, after all.

 

***

“You know”, Courfeyrac says oh-so-casually, downing the rest of his beer in one go, “the psychic had a vision, while he was taking the lift”.

Grantaire snorts and sips carefully his alcohol-free drink, glancing at Enjolras holding his Coke as if his life depended on it. Enjolras glances back. He finds ironic that they both had the same idea.

“What did he see?”, Enjolras asks sceptically, just so he has an excuse to tear his eyes away from Grantaire's.

Courfeyrac theatrically looks at the bar's ceiling and recites: “ _Oh... oh! I'm getting a vision! He's lonely! He's scared! Gavroche! Gavroche, do you hear me? We are going to find you_ ”; he proceeds to simulate a sort of spasm to his neck, and then he lowers his gaze to look at the rest of the group. “Then he walked out of the lift without saying goodbye. And that was it”.

“I bet that he was too shook to speak” Grantaire says drily. “You know, contacts with the Afterlife can be very tiring for the ones who have the Gift”.

Combeferre snorts. “Truly gifted. I heard from Montparnasse, by the way. You were right, Gavroche wasn't kidnapped by the pedophile we were thinking of. He's been arrested anyway.”

“That doesn't make sense, though”, Enjolras says, frowning at his Coke. “If it wasn't a pedophile, then why didn't we receive any ransom demand? A kid can't just disappear without anyone noticing, without any reason, without anything“.

Grantaire clicks his tongue. “I know that you disagree, and course we can't be sure it wasn't just some random pedophile we don't know about yet, but I think the kidnapper's in the family”.

Combeferre and Enjolras simultaneously lift their gaze on Grantaire; Courfeyrac's still ordering another drink for himself. “Why do you think that?”, asks Combeferre, when Enjolras stays resolutely silent. 

Grantaire tilts his head. “Love is strange sometimes, and twisted. The bad can be done meaning to do good. I don't have any proof yet, so I might be wrong, but I set a sort of trap. I don't think the kid is in danger. Anyway, tomorrow we're going to find out.”

Combeferre shrugs. “I've got to say, I'm intrigued now”. Then, he turns towards Enjolras: “What do you say, Boss?”

“Yeah, I am too. Enthralled. Charmed. Groundbreakingly fascinated by the suspense. I need a cig to chill”, he answers, deadpan. Grantaire laughs out loud and hands him his packet: “I've got you covered, if you're serious, Apollo. I need one myself. Let's go outside”.

Enjolras doesn't smoke often, but follows him nonetheless, because he's a weak man. He's been shot and tortured, sometimes to get information, and he's never said a word, but when it comes to Grantaire he's the weakest man on Earth. 

“This day started with me drugging you with sleeping meds, and is ending with me handing you nicotine. Am I starting to see a pattern with drugs?”, jokes Grantaire, producing a lighter from a pocket and handing it to Enjolras. 

Enjolras lights his own cigarette, and then directly lights Grantaire's. 

“It's your fault either way”, he says, inhaling and exhaling, rejoicing the feeling. He's been on edge the whole day, and the cigarette is helping him unwind a little.

“Are you feeling a little better now?”, asks Grantaire, who has predictably noticed his nervousness. Enjolras taps his cigarette so that the ash falls on the ground. He used to wish he looked cool as much as any other smoker, as a teenager, but he's never managed to score that goal. Even now, as an adult, after several smokes, the cigarette feels foreign between his own fingers and he feels out of place. On the contrary, Grantaire manages to look effortlessly cool, like the cigarette belongs to his lips.

“Babet's an ass and an impostor. I don't even know where he got the information about your father”, Grantaire adds after a moment, since Enjolras isn't answering.

That snaps Enjolras out of his reverie. He smiles bitterly. “From the same place you got the information about his family, I guess?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Nah, I don't think so. I'm sure he cheated. He could've guessed about your mother, since the golden cross you hide under your shirt clearly belongs to her, but nothing about you suggests anything about your father”.

“Where did you get the second child thing from, then?”, Enjolras asks, now curious. He can't help but notice how all of his interactions with Grantaire have started lately with Enjolras trying to ignore him, and Enjolras failing miserably and completely. Grantaire's like a whirlpool, at the end of the day he always ends up sucking Enjolras in his centre, and down underwater.

“I saw him take some tea from the vending machine at the CBI. He had condoms in his wallet. So it could've been two things, either he cheated on his wife with a shit ton of people or he had to be always prepared in case — many couples that want a child keep an eye on ovulation days, so they always must be equipped”. Grantaire shrugs. “Babet mentioned God in the very first interaction you had with him, so I figured he's too much of a bigot to actually cheat on his wife. The rest, I took a chance and went with it based on his reactions. He thinks he has a poker face, but he hasn't. On the other hand, you have. You hide really well your thoughts and your past”.

Enjolras inhales and exhales. “You read me anyway”, he says, for the sake of it.

Grantaire giggles. “I can read you _sometimes_. When you're really tired or really worried. But other than that, I can't read you more than anyone could after six years of working together”.

Enjolras' stomach ties in knots: “So we're – co-workers. Right?”, he says, and his Coke must've been spiked with alcohol because that sentence was just plain stupid. 

Grantaire doesn't seem to mind it, as he smiles softly and throws away the cigarette: “You're the good cop and I'm the mean psychic. We're partners. More than co-workers”. After a beat, he adds: “That is, if you're not ashamed of partnering someone who communicates with spirits and UFOs”; Grantaire wobbles his hands to underline the sarcasm and crosses his arms in an X. Enjolras grins and throws away the cigarette himself: “We’re way better than Mulder and Scully. And if anything, I'm honoured”.

Grantaire scoffs, but smiles. 

“What are you going to do, now?”, Enjolras asks to change the subject, because he may not be a mentalist but he can sense that Grantaire is not at ease.

Grantaire passes a hand through his dark hair. Somehow, he always manages to look perfectly classy and messy at the same time, with his regularly-cut curls and his leather jackets on fancy shirts. “Existentially, or physically? Because either way, I guess I'll get back to the office”. 

“Come to mine”, Enjolras blurts out before his brain-to-mouth filter and function properly. “I mean, spending every night on that couch must be shitty, I — I'd like to return the good night's sleep. I mean, we don't — if you —”; Grantaire pulls him out of his misery shaking his head with a smile. “I'm very tempted, but that's just not the night, Apollo. Let's do this another time, alright? I treasure the offer”. 

“I really don't mind”, Enjolras says. “I just — I hate the idea of you going back to the office, on that stupid sofa that must have been used as a barricade for some revolution since it's so old it looks like George Washington used it to take naps, and —”. He gapes at Grantaire for a few seconds, helplessly. 

Enjolras has realised he's in love for less than fifteen hours and he's already giving away too much, making a fool of himself. Jesus Christ. 

Once again, Grantaire smiles easily, but when he speaks his words are different: “If you're sure, thank you”. 

Enjolras' insides wobble. 

They step inside the bar to say good night to the rest of the team, and then walk to Enjolras' car in complete silence. 

They end up sleeping in Enjolras' bed, but they both keep a careful distance from one another.

Enjolras falls asleep only when he hears Grantaire's breath become quieter and more even; falling asleep, he thinks this may be the closest thing to human, emotional proximity they've both experienced in a long time. 

He doesn't know Grantaire is awake, and he's thinking the exact same thing.

 

***

_Grantaire once told him his story._

_Enjolras had heard a lot of versions of how Grantaire found his wife and daughter, before meeting him in person._

_The most spine-chilling, however, was the version told by Grantaire himself._

_They were at the CBI; Enjolras had the night shift, and he'd already dealt with every paperwork he had to deal with. They were both draped over Grantaire's sofa, talking about various topics._

_He doesn't remember how they got there; he knows they were chatting, and suddenly they were talking about Charlotte and Angela._

_“Imagine this”, Grantaire had said. “Imagine you're collaborating with the police, and you feel so sure of yourself, so invincible, so superior, that you actually have the courage to mock a serial killer on national TV. It's not even like you know that what you're doing is dangerous; in that moment it's you, the interviewer and the camera. Later, you're going to tell yourself that you were trying to provoke him, like you always do with the other people you're trying to read, but deep down you know it's false. You were simply drunk on power. You felt on the top of the world. So, you mock this guy, right? The TV show ends, you've gained a lot of money, you're happy and content because people believe you, you make them happy and they make you rich, so you think it's a fair exchange. You get home, and everything's normal. You park your car and you think you'd really like to drink a gin tonic with your wife even if it's very late. If you're unmarried, and you can't imagine yourself married, switch your wife and daughter with your two best friends in the world. It's not the same thing, but it'll do just fine. You get in the house. There's your daughter's tricycle — or your best friend's soccer ball — right in front of the door, so you smile and think that you told them a million times to put away the damn thing after they've finished using it. You look around, everything's fine, and you're so tired. You think the gin tonic can wait. You go upstairs, and the house is quiet. You start thinking it's strange, because usually your wife-best-friend waits for you watching the TV. You walk in the hallway that leads to your bedroom, and you can't wait to see your wife. She's probably fallen asleep, or she's muted the TV so it didn't wake up your daughter. But even from the other end of the hallway, you can see a note hung on your closed bedroom door that wasn't there before. It has never been there, not even the time when you and your wife fought so much she wanted to be left alone for a few hours. You walk faster, so you can reach the door and read the note. The note says:_

 

Dear mister Grantaire,

I do not like to be slandered in the media, especially by a dirty money-grabbing fraud.

If you were a real psychic, instead of a dishonest little worm, you wouldn't need to open the door to see what I've done to your lovely wife and child.

 

 _It's English. You should be able to comprehend it, but you can't. You don't understand a single word, you can't process anything of what's written on that note. So you open the door, and the first thing you see is a smiley face. It's drawn on the same wall where you and your wife were thinking of hanging the painting you've done of your wedding. It's drawn clockwise, with three fingers, and the whole room stinks of blood._ _You lower your gaze and you find your wife lying composedly in your bed, your daughter beside her. The sheets are red, but you rationally know they can't be because your wife always says that red agitates her. You've never bought red sheets, and she's never bought red nail polish. And yet, the sheets are red and her toenails are accurately painted in red._

 _You stand there for half an hour, still wearing the suit you had on TV, still smelling of expensive perfume and still craving for a gin tonic. You stand there, and all you can think about is the fact that you really still want that gin tonic. And you want it with your wife, but it's physically impossible, because she's not waking up, ever, and you are never going to have to scold your daughter for leaving her tricycle around again._ _You're alone. You're alone with your house, and your wedding painting, and your money, and your tricycle, and your fame, and your spirits and your fucking gin tonic.”_

 _Grantaire had become quiet and still very suddenly, and then had grimaced. “I don't know what they've told you, Apollo, but that's the real deal. The only true authorised biography: some hybris and pools of blood shed because of it”._

_Enjolras, nauseated, had stopped wearing his favourite red jacket for a few months after that night._

_When he got over the sick feeling and went back to wearing it, Grantaire had noticed and smiled. “I'm glad you're wearing that again. It suits you”, he had said._

_“It suits me?”, Enjolras had asked, raising an eyebrow._

_“Yeah”, Grantaire nodded, grinning. “You're always agitated”._

_Enjolras hadn't known what to say, back then, so he'd stayed quiet and kept working on the case._

_Now, he wishes he'd said something. He's sick of letting things go just because they scare him._

***

“I hate that thing”, Grantaire considers, staring viciously at Enjolras' air freshener hung in his car. “Throw it away”.

“I am _not_ throwing away my Little Tree”, Enjolras states, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. “It smells nice, and I like its colour”.

Grantaire clicks his tongue, clearly disgusted. “It smells chemical. Air fresheners are full of shit. Benzyl acetate, acetic acid, ethanol, thujone or acetone. I don't know how you can like its smell. I can almost feel myself inhaling cancer”.

“How do you even know what's on Little Trees?”, Enjolras asks, frowning. 

“I'm friends with Joly. Also, I've got a lot of spare time during night-time”, Grantaire simply answers; Enjolras dares to sneakily give him a look, and he's staring outside the car window. 

“Do you even ever sleep?”, Enjolras asks. He can't help the shade of sadness he hears in his own voice. 

“Hardly”, Grantaire answers, like it's the most normal thing in the world. “I harassed my psychiatrist with my nightmares when I did, so I decided it was simply a waste of time and money”.

“You have a psychiatrist? You hate them”, Enjolras says, shocked. He's known Grantaire for six years and Grantaire has managed to hide this vital piece of information from him the whole time? Enjolras knows he doesn't have any right to, but he kind of feels betrayed.

“I used to have one. After Angela and Charlotte died”, Grantaire says. His voice still sounds casual, but he's gotten quieter and more cautious. Enjolras feels a little less betrayed, but his shoulders tense up. The months right after his family's death are Grantaire's grey area. He has never mentioned them, not even once. “I had a nervous breakdown, you know. Creeping guilt's a sneaky bitch. Everyone thought I was just grieving, until they found me in a pool of my own blood, Red John's mark drawn on five different canvases with my blood, sleep deprived and basically starving. So they locked me in a Mental Health Institute, gave me pills to chill down and sleep, and this psychiatrist helped me a lot”.

Enjolras doesn't even know what to say. He's at loss of words. He can't even begin to imagine Grantaire, in his own house, suffering a nervous breakdown all alone, his wrists slit open and Red John's smiley face surrounding him.

“I didn't — I didn't know”, Enjolras stutters.

Grantaire visibly shrugs. “Nobody knows, except for those who found and helped me. It's not written on my file, it's in my wrists, in my veins and in my house”.

A tremendous, horrible suspicion twists Enjolras' insides: “You did clean up, after that. You cleaned up and threw away the canvases. You did, right?”

“Did I?”, Grantaire says, finally turning his head to look at Enjolras. “I don't really know, I haven't been in my living room since. Only in my kitchen and, of course, my bedroom. My copies can't quite rival with the original, though, I have to say”.

Enjolras pulls over and stops the car. He feels physically sick.

Grantaire's words echo in his head: “My memento mori's my own bedroom”. 

He feels his own breath get progressively unsteady. All of this is so wrong. They were taking about Little Trees, and now —

“I didn't mean to upset you”, says Grantaire, his voice so low it's almost a whisper. “I just wanted to be — sincere, I guess. With you. You deserve it”.

Enjolras looks at him. Grantaire's eyes are incredibly blue and frank: for the first time in years, he looks entirely and solely vulnerable and naked. He's not cocky, he's not acting arrogant or funny or manipulative. It's just him. He's sad.

“Thank you”, says Enjolras, his mind working at full speed to find the right words to say. He's sick of letting things go. “For telling me that. But — he'd dead, now, R. You have to whiten these walls. It's not your home anymore, you deserve to be happy. And — no, listen”, he adds, when he sees Grantaire shaking his head. “You do. I firmly believe that. Allow yourself to be selfish, move on. Never forget, but move on“.

He wants to say “with me”, but he can't bring these words to get out of his mouth. Grantaire keeps quiet and still for a very long time; his eyes never leave Enjolras'. “People around me —”, he starts to say, but Enjolras huffs and interrupts him: “They get annoyed, and frustrated, and vulnerable, because you always push their buttons. But they also feel understood, and you give them justice, and happiness. Period”.

Slowly, Grantaire averts his eyes and nods. Enjolras starts the engine again and goes back on the road: “Good”, he says.

They are silent for a few minutes, until Grantaire considers: “I don't regret it, though”.

Enjolras takes a turn and stops for a red light. “You don't regret what?”.

“Having a nervous breakdown. I mean, it wasn't pretty, and I'm ashamed of it, but it lead me to my psychiatrist, and she is the one that suggested I could collaborate with CBI”, Grantaire explains, his voice back to its usual lightness. His fingers tap nervously on his left knee, giving away his nervousness for the confession. “Yeah, well, what I'm saying is that it led me to you, Apollo, so... shit, also, of course, to everyone else in the team — Courf, and Jehan, and Combeferre, and everyone — but, I mean, mostly you, so, I'm pretty happy about that”.

Enjolras swallows down a lump in his throat, and nods. “I'm happy you found me”, he says.

There's another red light, so he stops and turns to look at Grantaire; Grantaire's already looking. 

They share a smile.

Then, driven by some instinctive impulse he can't quite explain, Enjolras tears away his Little Tree and throws it out of his rolled-down car window in one, fluid movement.

Grantaire huffs out a surprised laugh and smiles even wider.

If Enjolras treasures that laugh like some gold digger would treasure a golden nugget, then nobody has to know. 

 

***

They arrive at the Thénardiers mansion around midday. 

Grantaire, for some reason Enjolras fails to understand, instructed him to pretend he wants to arrest Éponine, or at least treat her as their main suspect, but only if he's asked.

As soon as they step into the house, Azelma Thénardier rushes towards them; she has wild eyes and a worried expression.

“We are looking for —”, Enjolras starts saying, but Azelma interrupts him with a “So it's true, you're really a psychic” to Grantaire. Her eyes are solely fixed on him, and she looks much less composed than the first time they saw her. She is wearing a green t-shirt and joggers, so she clearly didn't go to class this morning. “Éponine told me you were a fraud, but you're not. You knew where the ring was”.

Grantaire doesn't shrug it off like Enjolras expects him to, but he shyly ducks his head and makes a scene of being embarrassed: “I mean. I get haunches, sometimes, from up above. But it's nothing special, really”.

Azelma's eyes widen even more; she doesn't say anything. The silence is momentarily filled with two voices from upstairs, probably Mrs. Thénardier's, Babet's and Éponine's, and the sound of approaching steps. Grantaire is smiling and acting very sure of himself.

Enjolras finds himself lost, at first, with his colleague's behaviour; but then he catches up a little with what Grantaire might be trying to do: he thinks the kidnapper is in the family, but he doesn't think the kid is in danger. Three out of four family members believe in his abilities as a psychic, so he could use this to get some information.

As Mrs. Thénardier, Éponine and Babet appear in the hallway, Grantaire shoots a side glance at Enjolras, and nods. It somehow feels like a question, so Enjolras nods back.

Back in the first years of their collaboration, Grantaire used to do everything he wanted without even acknowledging Enjolras' agreement or consent. He didn't care if Enjolras got in trouble for his shenanigans — or, more probably, he was aware that they would get away with anything he'd done anyway, so he didn't bother to ask him permission or inform him about his intentions. 

It took some time for Enjolras to figure out that Grantaire did so as a sort of protection: if he ended up screwing up things really badly, Enjolras couldn't be legitimately held as an accomplice, because he didn't know what Grantaire had in his mind.

Without even talking about it, they have reached a kind of compromise in the last years: Grantaire doesn't tell Enjolras what he is going to do (Enjolras suspects sometimes Grantaire doesn't even know himself), but he silently asks if he has the permission to misbehave.

Now, Grantaire produces a small but genuine smile and turns towards Mrs. Thénardier: “Madame!”, he says charmingly. He reaches for her hands: “We came here to clarify a few shady points. How are you holding —”; as soon as Grantaire's hands touch the woman's, he abruptly stops talking and freezes.

Mrs. Thénardier becomes paler than she already is. Enjolras braces himself for whatever stunt Grantaire is going to pull. “What? Grantaire, what? Talk to me!”, the woman says, and even though she believes in the kind of bullshit Enjolras despises, he feels pity for her. She sounds so hopeful, so desperately prone to believe everything Grantaire is going to tell her; he wonders what kind of life she must've had before the financial stability changed it for the better.

Grantaire theatrically shakes his head; Enjolras has seen too many of his performances to not see the acting behind his actions, but he also knows that Grantaire can be very convincing. He's seen him pretend to be dead, happy, in pain, confused, mentally unstable, and he has always convinced the ones he wanted to convince. 

“It's nothing”, Grantaire says. “It was just a flash —”. Babet clicks his tongue skeptically but Mrs. Thénardier looks convinced, because she holds Grantaire's hands tighter and doesn't let go. “What do you see? Do you see Gavroche? Do you —”; Grantaire lets out a loud sigh and literally shrinks, ducking his head between his shoulders. It looks like the contact with Mrs. Thénardier is physically paining him.

“I smell — there's a strange smell”, he says, and it comes off whiny, like he's feeling pain. “It's pine? Is it pine? Gavroche!”, then exclaims, and all of sudden yanks away his hands from the woman in front of him. “ _Gavroche_ ”, Grantaire cries quietly, and Enjolras is honestly astounded. He swears to God that if he didn't know better, he would believe that Grantaire is actually seeing the kid. 

Grantaire's eyes are a bit glassy, vacant — the vague stare of a blind man: “Are you — who did this to you? _Who_ took you?”

Enjolras takes a moment to scan the people standing around Grantaire; Mr. Thénardier looks genuinely concerned, listening attentively to every word Grantaire says; Éponine looks torn between skepticism and hope; Babet is straight up irritated; Azelma is staring at the whole scene with a shocked expression that Enjolras can't quite decipher.

“Are you asleep? They drugged you, didn't they? Who did this?”, Grantaire keeps going, kneeling on the ground — hands in his hair, sweat on his forehead, pained eyes. Even though Enjolras knows it's a farce, he hopes Grantaire is going to be done soon, because seeing him like this isn't pleasant.

All of sudden, Grantaire lifts his head and vaguely stares at Éponine: “He's in the woods behind the mansion, isn't he? He says it's you”.

Éponine opens her mouth to protest in indignation; her cheeks are already heating up, and she looks genuinely angry.

“No! No, no, no”, Azelma jumps in, hurrying to get between Grantaire and Éponine, even though neither of them has made any motion to move. “It's me, it's not her. I swear — he's fine. I check on him every day. I didn't mean to hurt him, I swear”.

She looks at Enjolras with wild eyes: “I didn't mean — I just wanted to blackmail them.”, she says, pointing her index at her mother. “The money I get from work aren't enough, so I thought we — we could get away, you know? With the money they were going to give us. They treat him like _shit_ ”.

“With what ransom? You didn't send any request”, Enjolras asks, not convinced at all. 

Grantaire stands up on his feet and turns towards Enjolras. “She was going to, she wanted to wait for a few days to see if her parents cared. But then I told her I knew where the ring she had lost was, so she thought I was a real psychic. She got scared and didn't send anything”.

Enjolras pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls Combeferre, because they are going to need the forensic department.

Grantaire smoothes nonexistent wrinkles on his shirt and winks at Babet. “See?”, he says. “This is how you fake a vision”.

 

***

“The thing I don't understand is”, Enjolras says thoughtfully, crossing his legs, “the whole logistic of the kidnapping”.

Grantaire, sat next to him, giggles and shrugs. “Azelma suffers from anxiety, so she takes meds to sleep at night. Did you notice how she looked restless when we met her the first time? She had used the last drops of medicine she had to drug her brother. I found the bottle in the trash can. Her brother disappeared in the morning and we were there in the afternoon, so it didn't make sense that she hadn't slept because she was worried for him”. 

They are sitting on the bench where Enjolras found Grantaire and Éponine smoking, the first time they were here. “So”, Enjolras tries to reason, “she drugs her brother's chocolate powder. Which is the one you gave to me, to test if it actually was what you thought it was. You're an asshole, by the way.” Grantaire grins, but he doesn't say anything. Enjolras goes on: “Judging from her reaction when you addressed her, Éponine goes to work without knowing anything. Gavroche falls asleep”.

Grantaire nods in agreement: “The next problem is, how do you get the kid in the woods without being filmed by the nearest shop's cameras?”

Enjolras looks at the woods he can see beyond the hedge Grantaire was obsessing over a few days before. “You climb over the hedge?”, he hypothesises. Then, he immediately changes his mind: “Nah, you've got a sleeping kid on your shoulders. How —?”

Grantaire points at the hedge: “Do you see the leaves there? There is a section of hedge that is slightly taller than the rest. Do you see that?”.

Enjolras gets closer to Grantaire, to follow the trajectory of his finger, and squints his eyes. He can see that, now that Grantaire is pointing it out. “Goodness gracious”, he comments. “There's a secret passage? _Why did nobody fucking tell us_?”

Grantaire shakes his head: “Nobody knows, except for Gavroche and Azelma. They found it playing in the garden. Their own personal secret passage”, he says, smiling slightly. “Their gardener also knows, of course, but he didn't think it was important. Nobody asked him and he knows Azelma since she was two years old. When I asked him who he thought the kidnapper was, he didn't think once about the Thénardier's”.

Enjolras glances over Grantaire, because he isn't sure Grantaire is telling him everything he knows, but eventually nods. “Okay”, he says. “So, she takes Gavroche in the woods using the secret passage. Then what?”

Grantaire shrugs again. “Then she loses her ring. Did you notice that she kept reaching for her left ring finger, when we were talking to her? But she had nothing on it. It's a habit that people easily pick up, with something they wear often. You do it, with your mother's cross”.

Enjolras hums understandingly. “It makes sense. Only you would notice a thing like that, but it makes sense. So you went in the woods and looked for the ring. You found it, and you left it there, am I correct?”

Grantaire nods. “In my defence, it was easy to spot. It's not like I borrowed a portable metal detector or anything. If I hadn't found it, I would've thought of something else”.

“But you found it, and then you told Babet to tell her. You knew the ring was behind the hedge, and she found out, but nobody knew about the secret passage because nobody had asked her, so she assumed you were a real psychic and didn't send her ransom demand because she got scared”. Enjolras pauses. “How did you know Éponine wasn't involved?”

Grantaire takes a look at the woods, where the CBI and the forensic department are doing their job. “I didn't. I took a wild stab in the dark”, he eventually says. “But I think Azelma was going to tell her, had the plan gone smoothly. She wouldn't have left without her, she loves her too much”.

They sit in silence for a while. Enjolras keeps thinking about Mrs. Thénardier's face, during Grantaire's farce. How hopeful she was.

“What do you think my mother would tell me?”, Enjolras suddenly asks, without even thinking about saying it. The words kind of just — leave his mouth. “I mean, if you could talk to her. I know you can't, but — if I were one of your clients. What would you tell me?”

When Grantaire turns to look at him, he seems surprised; it's an occasion, really, because he rarely is. Then his expression softens into a warm, hesitant smile, as he kindly nudges Enjolras. “I think I would tell you that she loved you and she would be proud. Which is a classic, really, but it would be true. Because she raised a beautiful, young man  who loves his job and always knows the right thing to do. And you can't raise a son so amazing without a huge amount of love, let me tell you”.

Enjolras feels his eyes prickle; he wants to say something, but he doesn't know what to say, so he simply smiles and stays quiet until Combeferre approaches them.

He tells them they found the kid and he is okay, just very confused and scared. Asking Gavroche questions is going to be one hell of a task. The day is not over yet.

 

***

Enjolras is exhausted. He's slumped on his office chair, after having spent five goddamned hours trying to figure out if Gavroche is being abused by his parents and not getting anything out of it. Days like this, he fucking hates his job.

There's a soft knock on the office door; as he looks up, he finds Grantaire. 

Grantaire has a gym bag on his shoulder that looks heavy, and a hesitant expression on his face. “Can you —”, he starts to say, and Enjolras has rarely ever seen him so insecure. “Do you have plans? Can you come with me?”, he eventually asks, playing nervously with the bag's zipper.

“I don't have plans, no. I can come with you“, Enjolras says, and he can't deny he's half curious and half terrified. If this is about The Thing they're not talking about, he is going to need all his force of will to not screw up. He doesn't even know what he's going to do — is he going to tell Grantaire? It could make things between them pretty awkward. The kiss itself already contributed to shake to the bone their relationship and make their interactions uncertain and unsteady; a love declaration could blow it definitely up.

“Okay”, Grantaire says, more to himself than to Enjolras. He's paler than usual, and for once in his life he looks like he doesn't really know what he's doing. “Okay, so, can you drive me home? I know it sounds strange, but please — trust me?”

The curiosity and the terror steadily and proportionally increase in Enjolras' stomach. “Sure”, he says, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

Grantaire nods and visibly swallows.

They walk outside the office and get in Enjolras' car without exchanging a word. Enjolras' curiosity is getting suffocated by the sense of pure fear he is experiencing in his veins.

Nobody Enjolras is aware of has ever seen Grantaire's home in six years, and he is going to be the first one. He thinks about the blood and he feels physically sick.

Grantaire lives in Malibu, so it takes a while to get there. During the car trip, Grantaire's left knee goes restlessly up and down, and he keeps glancing at his hands. 

Enjolras doesn't even try to turn on the radio, since any idiot could sense the seriousness of the situation — but after a while, Grantaire turns it up himself, jumping from one station to another until he settles for one who's currently playing The Smiths. 

At some point, Grantaire even smiles and says “Your car smells much better without that devilish Little Tree”.

Enjolras arches his eyebrows automatically: “It doesn't smell of anything at all”, he points out. Grantaire shrugs and simply stares: “It smells like you. You know, of the aftershave you usually use. It has a great smell”. Enjolras doesn't quite know what to do with that information, so allows himself a smile and lets it go. 

When they arrive in front of Grantaire's house the sun is setting; the deserted building, in great condition despite Grantaire almost never being there, is tinged of orange and red; the air smells of sea salt, and the soothing sound of the crashing waves is distinctly near. 

Enjolras parks the car and Grantaire unlocks his door; his shoulders, one of which is still carrying the gym bag, are tense, and his movements are nervous and not fluid at all. This Grantaire is completely different from any other side of Grantaire Enjolras has ever met; he's seen him vulnerable, sad, rarely angry, happy, comfortable and uncomfortable, but he has never given away his nervousness this much. 

Grantaire lets Enjolras in, switches the lights on and closes the door. Enjolras vaguely registers that the both of them look completely exhausted, their shirts all crumpled and drenched in sweat on their backs: his attention is immediately caught by Grantaire's living room.

It is almost devoid of any furniture; turning around, he can catch a glimpse of Grantaire's kitchen, and it looks immaculate, never used.

The wooden floor is shiny and well-kept, the walls are immaculately white and the space is very airy. Enjolras can see a wide window pane behind the stairs, but he doesn't walk towards it.

“They found me there”, Grantaire says, pointing at a room hidden by a closed glass door, on his left. “But I made my housekeeper check, they cleaned everything while I was locked in. I guess they made the right thing, after all”. 

Grantaire walks towards the stairs.

“Why don't you have any furniture?”, Enjolras stupidly asks, without making a move to follow him. Grantaire stops walking and looks around thoughtfully, as if the act of throwing out all of his belongings were due to someone else. “I guess I threw away everything that reminded me of them? I don't really know, I just did it. No offence, Apollo, but you have some of your stuff still packed, you're not that different”.

Enjolras wants to say that at least he has a couch or a TV, but he can tell that it's not either the place or time to argue, so he nods _Touché_ and follows Grantaire upstairs. 

At the top, Grantaire instantly turns right and enters in a hallway that, unlike the rest of the house, doesn't look very clean. 

“This is the zone my housekeeper doesn't go to. I asked her to clean only the rest of the house, I pay her well, and as far as I know she's never come here. I don't think she'd still be working for me if she did”, Grantaire says, probably noticing Enjolras perplexed face, and well, this explains a lot of things and opens brand new scenarios.

So, what Enjolras knows is that Grantaire is almost never home but he has hired a housekeeper to keep it clean; Grantaire has thrown away everything that reminded him of his family; Grantaire is currently leading Enjolras towards his bedroom.

There are other doors facing the hallway, to be fair, but this is the only logical explanation — especially since Grantaire is currently looking like he wants to get swallowed by the ground and never come back.

“Why do you keep your house clean? You're never here”, Enjolras hears himself say. He has never hated himself more; if Combeferre were present, he'd slap him so hard. Just so, _so_ hard.

Despite Enjolras' obvious stupidity, Grantaire produces a small smile; they haven't stopped walking, and they are quickly approaching the door at the end of the hallway. “I guess — Angela would've hated if I simply let it go, you know? I already messed up with myself once, and she would've been so disappointed. I figured the least I could do was take care of the house. She loved it so much”.

Enjolras nods; he wants to say that it is a nice house indeed, but in that moment they both stop walking, as they are in front of the closed door, so he shuts up. He has already said his fair share of bullshit.

Grantaire stares at the white wooden door for a few seconds, then he takes a deep breath and opens it. Enjolras, right beside him, can't help but peek inside, and the first thing he sees is Red John's smiley face painted on the opposite wall. 

Red John must've used a lot of blood, since the smiley's eyes and mouth are both dribbled, the now-dry drops dripping along the white wall for a few centimetres.

Except for a mattress in a corner, the room is completely empty; the floor doesn't seem stained, if only a little dusty. The air vaguely smells of Grantaire, and nothing more. 

Grantaire walks in and lets his gym bag fall on the wooden floor with a loud thump. Enjolras follows him in silence.

Grantaire stares at the smiley face for a few minutes, then clears his throat and turns towards Enjolras. He looks paler and more nervous than ever.

“You're —”, he starts to say, but immediately stops and shakes his head, probably scolding himself for his false start. “I thought a lot about our conversation. The one that we've had this morning in your car”.

Enjolras can do nothing but nod. The Little Tree conversation. He doesn't think he could forget it even in fifty years from now. 

“And I thought I owe myself this”, Grantaire then pauses, but it sounds like that sentence is a dead end, because when he speaks again he doesn't elaborate any further: “ _This_ is the person I was. That I have been for many years”, he says instead, pointing his finger at the smiley face and at the bare mattress on the floor. “The Wonder Boy before, when I was in my dad's circus, and the fraud then, the man who deceived people for a living”.

Enjolras' brain is switched off. He can't think about anything other than Grantaire's words. 

Grantaire keeps talking: “This is the dishonest little worm, the freak show, the scared boy who ran away, the drunk-on-power man who enjoyed the spotlights a little too much. This is also the man that had a mental breakdown, that cut his wrists, hallucinated things and shot a man straight between the eyes”. Grantaire swallows down; his gaze is locked with Enjolras', and for the first time since Enjolras has known him, he looks absolutely terrified. 

“ _This_ ”, he then says, and points vaguely in the gym bag's and Enjolras' direction, “this what I'm trying to be. I'm not going to say that I am, because I'm not there yet, but this is the man _I'm trying_ to become. The counsellor. The mean psychic. The man who knows what is right and what is wrong, what is important and what is superfluous. What he must treasure and what he can let go of”. Enjolras vaguely registers that Grantaire's voice and hand are slightly shaking, but his mind is completely focused on his words. If there was a bomb nearby right now, he doesn't think he could possibly run away. He's frozen on the spot.

“So, I know we're not talking about what happened, and maybe you don't want to hear about it ever again, but today you told me I have to whiten my walls, so I want to do it. Literally, and figuratively”. 

A moment of silence follows, during which they simply stare at each other. Then, Grantaire nods to himself when he sees that Enjolras is simply staring at him, he crouches and zips his gym bag open; a white paint can is revealed inside it. 

He takes it out of the bag and opens it, without taking off his wristwatch, or his probably quite expensive shirt. 

Grantaire lifts the can seemingly without effort and positions himself in front of the smiley face; seeing through his shirt how Grantaire's shoulders are tensing up, though, snaps Enjolras out of his trance. With a few steps, he places himself side by side with Grantaire, and helps him hold the can. Grantaire stares at him. “At the count of three?”, he asks, and Enjolras nods. 

The white paint splashes right on the smiley face; many drops of the liquid jump right back at Enjolras and Grantaire, staining their clothes and making the room smell of fresh paint. 

They throw the remaining paint at the wall, then let go of the can — it crashes loudly on the floor. Grantaire kicks it away and then turns towards Enjolras. “You know I am a dick”, he says, seemingly out of the blue. It's only when Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire himself, and sees his focused stare, that he figures out they only just get rid of the literal part of the whitening. “I am a dick, I am unreliable, deeply irritating, arrogant, and I probably have forgotten how to act like a normal human being. I still play games, and I lie, and I trick people — no matter what the final purpose of the trick is — because I want to avoid the truth of how I feel”.

Grantaire's face and hair are striped and dotted with white paint, and his eyes are quickly getting watery. Enjolras feels that he might be close to shaking and crying himself. 

“The idea of letting anyone close to me _is terrifying_ , for — you know, for obvious reasons — but the truth, Apollo, is that I've slept beside you twice, and it's the _best_ I've ever slept, and the thought of waking up without you terrifies me even more than letting people close, so —”. Grantaire swallows and lets out a weak and shaky laugh, lifting his gaze up to the ceiling. “The truth is I love you. And you can't imagine how good that feels to say it out loud, really, but it's the truth, and it scares me, but it's the truth of what I feel, and it makes me happy to be finally able to say that. I know you probably don't want to talk about it, and I don't expect anything from you — it's just — I had to say it out loud, you know what I mean? To know that I'm finally able to say it”. 

Once again, Enjolras is frozen on the spot; there is so much information his brain is trying to process, and Grantaire's words are still echoing: _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Grantaire stares intensely at Enjolras, a few tears rolling down his cheeks, and smiles: “Shit, fuck, I'm sorry you had to endure all of this, but I really needed to do it, and —”; it feels wrong to say anything, it feels wrong to do anything other than pulling Grantaire in a tight hug; so, that's what Enjolras does. 

Grantaire makes a chocked up noise of surprise, and Enjolras holds him tighter, and Grantaire eventually holds him back.

He doesn't know for how long they stay like this, squeezing each other without saying anything. 

Then, Enjolras pulls back to look at Grantaire in the eyes; he cups Grantaire's left cheek with his hand, smearing it even more with paint; he rests his forehead against Grantaire's, and finds surprisingly easy to say: “I feel the same. And I, too, am scared. So, so scared“.

Grantaire widens his eyes — and it's absurd how easily he could've read it on Enjolras' face, if only he had looked for it. “Do you think two scared people could make a brave one?”, Enjolras asks. 

Grantaire shakes his head: “I don't think so, no”, he says, looking at Enjolras with the expression of a man who's wondering if he's dreaming. “But they can try”, he adds. He swallows air. “Do you — did you mean what you said?”

Enjolras nods. 

Grantaire lets out a shaky laugh. His eyes are still watery. “How lucky”, he says, his voice broken but unmistakably happy.

Enjolras smiles. 

He, too, is broken and unmistakably happy.

This — all of this — could even work out fine, after all.

 

***

_Grantaire once told him that if he were dying, and had one last call to make, he would call Enjolras._

_“Why me?”, Enjolras asked, tearing away his eyes from the shooting polygon's target and looking at Grantaire. “Don't you have anybody else?”. His headset was almost making him deaf, so he had to shout._

_He saw Grantaire shake his head and read his lips: “You're the only one who would understand”._

_Enjolras didn't know what he would have understood, but he appreciated the thought nonetheless. He went back to shooting the target. “I don't know who I would call. Maybe I would call my half-sister. Tell her I forgive her. Ask her to forgive me.” He shot once again. Straight in the head. “But then I couldn't say goodbye to you and the team. So maybe I would call you or Combeferre, and ask you to contact the rest of the team and my sister”. Enjolras put down his gun and lowered his shooting headset._

_“I'm not more important than 'Ferre or your sister”, Grantaire said, crossing his arms and staring at the black and white target approaching._

_“You're more important than a lot of people”, Enjolras answered. “I would definitely choose you over my half-sister”. The target was shot mostly in the heart zone and in the head zone. Mostly. He could do better._

_Grantaire grinned cockily. “But not over Combeferre”, he said._

_Enjolras sent his target back and passed an hand through his hair. “It depends on how much you piss me off during our next case”, he said._

_Grantaire bowed down theatrically. “I'll do the best of my worst, Apollo. Only for you”._

_The following case was the one where Grantaire set a chair on fire and nearly got everyone suspended. Enjolras was under the strong impression he would've called Grantaire as his last call anyway._

 

***

They undress each other slowly, with purpose. Enjolras takes off Grantaire's stained shirt, and Grantaire unbuttons Enjolras'. 

“You're here”, he says, his blue eyes wide and incredulous. 

Enjolras digs a hand in Grantaire's hair: “I'm here. And I love you”, he whispers. He stares at Grantaire's lips, as they part to suck air in raggedly.

“Say it again?”, Grantaire pleads, breathing heavily, like he can't quite believe it.

Enjolras leans in slowly and kisses him in response, because he knows that words could not convince Grantaire; Grantaire is a misbeliever at heart, he needs facts, not words. 

It's nothing more than lips against lips, at first, and yet Grantaire is shaking under Enjolras' touch.

“It's been a while since I did —”, he says against Enjolras' lips, sounding pained. “With other people, it has always been — superficial relief”. His hands go to the sides of Enjolras' neck. 

“Now what?”, Enjolras asks him, before he quickly, chastely kisses him again. 

“Now it's you”, Grantaire simply answers, pulling him in a finally deeper kiss. His tongue slides against Enjolras', and in that gesture he manages to put so many emotions that, for a moment, Enjolras almost feels like he has complete access to Grantaire's mind. He knows what he feels, what he needs, what he wants.

“I want to give you everything”, Grantaire says, ducking his head to mouth at Enjolras' jaw. “Make you stop thinking, make you shut up, make you shudder, and moan, and shake with pleasure”. He trails quick kisses down Enjolras' neck, making him actually shiver and whine softly. 

The magic Grantaire had managed to do on Enjolras the first time they kissed is still working now: like the first time in the club, Enjolras isn't worrying about anything at the moment.

“I never shut up”, he manages to say, just because; it earns him a laugh from Grantaire, who pulls Enjolras towards his own bed.

“We'll see”, he answers, sitting on the edge of the mattress; Grantaire lays down, with Enjolras on top of him. 

His hands go to Enjolras' belt and start to undo it. There is no malice, no rush, no deliberate sexual purpose in that: he's simply undressing Enjolras.

“You don't how much it feels liberating to be finally able to do it”, he mutters to Enjolras' collarbone. Enjolras tilts his head, so he can see Grantaire's face, and smirks: “You're finally able to get in my pants, no big deal”, he says, jokingly, deliberately misinterpreting Grantaire's words. “Don't welcome it like it's the Boston Tea Party, even I am not that patriotic”.

Grantaire clicks his tongue and snorts: “Are we swapping roles? Weren't you the nice guy?”; he slips Enjolras' belt out of his trousers, and starts undoing the buttons and the zip.

Enjolras shakes his head and kisses his earlobe: “I can be very nice, if you want”, he murmurs.

Grantaire lets out a huff: “Are you still talking?”, he asks, indignantly. “Fucking hell, shut up”; he pulls Enjolras' trousers down, the action made difficult by the fact that Enjolras is shaking with laughter; said laughter is abruptly stopped by Grantaire, who suddenly grinds against him. 

Enjolras is left gaping between Grantaire's hands, lips slightly parted and eyes fixed on the man beneath him. 

“Much better”, Grantaire murmurs, smirking and kissing him at the same time.

It's all purposefully slow, painfully intimate. Grantaire second guesses each move he makes, afraid of having lost his touch; Enjolras can't focus on anything other than Grantaire and forgets about any worry he might have about this. He's lost at sea in Grantaire's hands, for once in his life completely abandoned.

“Do you know I'm a sitting duck, right now?“, he asks suddenly, mumbling against Grantaire's lips. In his defence, his brain is numb with pleasure and he's not used to the feeling, so his neural connections are struggling to function properly. Grantaire widens his eyes.

“I mean”, Enjolras tries to explain, his mouth not really to catching up with the feelings he's feeling right now — his words are slightly slurred, coming out with difficulty: “I've never been so — abandoned, you know? I'm — bare. This is what scared me”.

Grantaire freezes; Enjolras knows immediately it came off wrong: “But it's good. It's a _good_ thing. I'm not afraid anymore. I'm good with being a sitting duck, if it's with you”.

Beneath him, Grantaire visibly relaxes; he reluctantly goes back to what he was doing as if he was still uncertain if Enjolras enjoys it or not. Enjolras enjoys it. Very much. More than Grantaire can imagine.

“This is the weirdest love declaration I have ever received”, Grantaire admits, trailing his hands along Enjolras' spine. “I am shocked to find that it was extremely charming, in its own way”. They kiss again. “But everything you do is charming, so I don't know why —”, he gasps, “why I'm surprised”.

They fall asleep naked in Enjolras' bed.

This time, it doesn’t take long.

 

***

Grantaire wakes up in the middle of the night. He doesn't quite scream, but it's a close thing, and he immediately wakes Enjolras.

“Shit, sorry”, Grantaire says, his breath heavy and shaky.

Enjolras sits up on the mattress and tugs him close in an embrace.

“Was it a nightmare?”, he asks. He feels Grantaire nod.

“I'm sorry I woke you”, Grantaire says, and his voice sounds sour.

“I'm always going to wake up when you have a nightmare. I hope so, because I want to. I want to be here”, Enjolras says, trying to be convincing and soothing at the same time.

Grantaire nods, and his left hand finds Enjolras', and Enjolras finds out that he has taken off his ring. 

Enjolras wants to ask him; Enjolras wants to know about the nightmares Grantaire has, but he knows that this is not the time or place.

“I was thinking”, Grantaire suddenly says after a while, when his voice sounds calmer and more collected. “We have to frame Babet, somehow. Provoke him and record him, maybe”.

“We are going to. We'll think about this in the morning, at the office”, Enjolras answers, and takes a mental note to not forget. 

Grantaire huffs out a laugh. “Or maybe we could fake a kidnapping and make him confess”, he suggests.

“No”, Enjolras vehemently answers, trying to not give away the fact that he wants to laugh so hard. “We are not going to kidnap someone just because he's an ass —”

“Oh, _come on_ ”, Grantaire interrupts him, and he's definitely grinning, so he must be feeling better. Enjolras ducks his head so he can look Grantaire in the eyes. “ _Come on_ , it'll be fun”.

Enjolras shakes his head, smiling. Grantaire places a kiss on his cheek and keeps holding his hand, as if he wanted to be reassured of the fact that Enjolras is there. 

Enjolras grins. “Fun?”, he asks.

Grantaire nods enthusiastically: “Yeah, it'll be fun”. He tugs a blonde curl behind Enjolras' ear and suddenly, without any doubt, Enjolras feels the happiest he's ever been.

“Let's see what kind of trouble we can make”, Grantaire adds, and tugs him in a kiss, deep and sweet.

He couldn’t really deny him anything.

 

 _Trouble it is, then_ , Enjolras thinks, as he returns the kiss.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, a few things.
> 
> This has been an emotional rollercoaster to write and to conceive. The story is (very) loosely based on The Mentalist's 4x03 Pretty Red Balloon, but I changed a lot of things so the story could fit the characters. It is an AU where the chronological order of Grantaire/Jane and Enjolras/Linsbon's dynamics is fucked up for the sake of the narrative.  
>  About the story: a few things are not made in the most logical order, for the sake of narrative again (in the episode, checking for pedophiles is one of the first things they do, because it in fact makes more sense than a kidnapping within the family). A few quotes and scenes from the story are actually quotes from the show: the [letter from Red John](Okay,%20so,%20a%20few%20things.%20This%20has%20been%20an%20emotional%20rollercoaster%20to%20write%20and%20to%20conceive.%20The%20story%20is%20\(very\)%20loosely%20based%20on%20The%20Mentalist's%204x03%20Pretty%20Red%20Balloon,%20but%20I%20changed%20a%20lot%20of%20things%20so%20the%20story%20could%20fit%20the%20characters.%20It%20is%20an%20AU%20where%20the%20chronological%20order%20of%20Grantaire/Jane%20and%20Enjolras/Linsbon's%20dynamics%20is%20fucked%20up%20for%20the%20sake%20of%20the%20narrative.%20About%20the%20story:%20a%20few%20things%20are%20not%20made%20in%20the%20most%20logical%20order,%20for%20the%20sake%20of%20narrative%20again%20\(in%20the%20episode,%20checking%20for%20pedophiles%20is%20one%20of%20the%20first%20things%20they%20do,%20because%20in%20fact%20it%20makes%20sense%20than%20a%20kidnapping%20within%20the%20family.%20A%20few%20quotes%20and%20scene%20from%20the%20story%20are%20actually%20quotes%20from%20the%20show:%20the%20letter%20from%20Red%20John%20), a bit of Grantaire's [love declaration ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBcE2kNPcGw)and, of course, [my favourite quote](https://youtu.be/OG4Rs6SJq-o?t=59) from the show, even if it is in a completely different context.
> 
> Some are quotes inside the quote ("We are way better than Mulder and Scully" references to [this](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C9qHA1TWAAAwyd7.jpg), because I am Bones trash) and the God is not a UFO/God is not a psychic scene is a reference to the glorious Seeley Booth quote "Jesus is not a zombie".
> 
> I don't know if this is common knowledge, but the _hybris_ Grantaire refers to is the Greek word for _Overbearing pride or presumption; __arrogance_. Also, even though I do share Grantaire's personal view on Little Trees and the chemicals are true, they do not actually cause cancer. That's what their ads say, anyway. Don't trust the system too much, kids, those things smell _bad_.
> 
> Thanks to Mia, for telling me that I could write a whole fic in English, to Chiara for supporting me and to Lidia for being the first to review, comment and beta-ing (is this the word?) the whole thing.
> 
> This is a universe I could actually return to, because I've had so much fun writing this, so let me know what you think about it!
> 
> You can find me at [obscuriae](http://obscuriae.tumblr.com/).


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